The skies have rendered everything a pale grey.
Not used to our own thoughts, the screams still ring in our ears.
We are all wandering under the ash rain, eyes low.
Nothing heard, nothing said.
There’s not much of us left, not much of anything.
After this agony, where will we go?
When these wounds heal, and the skies finally clear.
All we will have is a wasteland.
Sep 17, 2020
Sep 17, 2020 at 6:55 PM UTC
The skies have rendered everything a pale grey.
Not used to our own thoughts, the screams still ring in our ears.
We are all wandering under the ash rain, eyes low.
Nothing heard, nothing said.
There’s not much of us left, not much of anything.
After this agony, where will we go?
When these wounds heal, and the skies finally clear.
All we will have is a wasteland.