This is not the world I imagined…
Perhaps in a different time, in a different age, but not this one. Before me lies a wasteland, covered in lies and deception so it seems as if everything is perfect. It is not.
Rain falls from the skies, an open wound bleeding upon the ashes of civilization, lightning, silver cross striking into the heart of cities and infrastructure. Thunder heralds a change, a cleansing, a rebirth impending.
Platinum shards that light up the night sky thrill my soul, and though I fear them, I do not wish them to end. They are nature, they are the way, and they are the cycle. We will be part of it, we always have been. Our time will come. We have much to account for.
Who will stand up for what has been done? Who will shoulder the blame? Is there life out there, is there penance? Take and never give back, take without sharing, take what is of worth, burn the rest, leave ashes and smoke behind a trail of tears.
This is not the world I imagined…
Black are these days, crimson the nights. Where these voices coming from? Who’s tears and cries do I hear haunting my soul? What ghosts are these that remain in this desert of ashes? Are they my own, so deformed that I do not recognize myself? There is nothing here, only shells, shells of what was once life. Dreams are dark and visions of paradise distorted into terrors.
Who else can we look to but ourselves? Have brought our end upon us, the wrath of the cycle? The wheels are turning… we will be consumed, as we have been consuming. This is it. This is our end.
This is not the world I imagined…
Perhaps in a different time, in a different age, but not this one. Before me lies a wasteland, covered in lies and deception so it seems as if everything is perfect. It is not.
Rain falls from the skies, an open wound bleeding upon the ashes of civilization, lightning, silver cross striking into the heart of cities and infrastructure. Thunder heralds a change, a cleansing, a rebirth impending.
Platinum shards that light up the night sky thrill my soul, and though I fear them, I do not wish them to end. They are nature, they are the way, and they are the cycle. We will be part of it, we always have been. Our time will come. We have much to account for.
Who will stand up for what has been done? Who will shoulder the blame? Is there life out there, is there penance? Take and never give back, take without sharing, take what is of worth, burn the rest, leave ashes and smoke behind a trail of tears.
This is not the world I imagined…
Black are these days, crimson the nights. Where these voices coming from? Who’s tears and cries do I hear haunting my soul? What ghosts are these that remain in this desert of ashes? Are they my own, so deformed that I do not recognize myself? There is nothing here, only shells, shells of what was once life. Dreams are dark and visions of paradise distorted into terrors.
Who else can we look to but ourselves? Have brought our end upon us, the wrath of the cycle? The wheels are turning… we will be consumed, as we have been consuming. This is it. This is our end.
This is not the world I imagined…
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