Looking at the sky, its expanse darkened with ash,
the flames of war rise from the burning husks of the buildings.
Ash falls on my face, like snow, a cruel mockery of nature’s cleansing touch.
The heat swells around me, the screams of the dying and the wounded hound the streets.
Like the echoing cries of the banshee, crying, ever crying, her sorrowed song of defeat.
Pain, such bitterness, it is like poisened waters brought before me, and I am forced to drink.
I hear a child weeping, weeping over a fallen mother, her pale and bloodied hand still clinging desperatly to the wailing babe.
Blood, blood on the ground, in the burning cars, in the buildings. The dying, the dead, all caught in the cruel expanse of searing heat.
Tears running down my face, a testament to a memory of a time, when life flourished, and hate was but a distant shadow, yet it is no more. Death’s door opens for many, and the reaper is knocking at our doors, though safe from his icy touch we may feel.
Fall, fire fall, it falls like rain on this place, like angry spirits from the abyss. They torment and torture, and leave this world as an empty husk of pain and sadness.
Fall, Fire Fall…
Poetry