‘The Twelve Apostles’, by Kavindee

They stand like tall masts,
Towering over the battlefield that is a sea of ultramarine,
Heads held high above the cacophony beneath,
They can only watch as their fortress crumbles,
To be crushed underfoot by time and a power,
The hand of nature from which they were fashioned,
And the hand of nature by which they are destined to fall,
With faithful honour, each holds for their time.
A barricade against the turbulent, cobalt waters,
And the waves like hungry mice,
Nibbling away at their toes,
Crashing against them like a battering ram,
And eaten away by the tears of the cerulean skies,
Cutting channels down their faces,
Yet they wear these scars with pride,
Waiting out a losing battle.
As tall and hopeful as a tower,
Scraping the stormy skies with stony, vermillion fingers,
Fleeting hopes strewn across jagged walls of rock,
That they would be upheld for tomorrow’s children,
But the line of fire isn’t a very long one,
Crannied heads bowed, saying their prayers,
Time will never heal these wounds,
For it is time that inflicts them.
Falling like the front lines, they will tumble to their knees,
Collapsing into the tumultuous seas beneath,
Craggy, tangerine faces shattering into slender, sharp fragments,
Sending showers of rocks into the oceans,
Peppering bullets of dust into a sea of broken glass,
Piercing the surface with tiny, needle-like pinpricks,
To be washed away by the retreating waters,
The waves bring back spoils of war.
The name they gave the first to fall,
His foundations proved to be unsturdy,
As if he had been born lame,
This one didn’t choose to plummet,
He could not have been such a traitor
As Judas.