Dies the Fire
The air is cold, without a breeze,
The ground is parched and dry.
The trees are cracked, blackened and blasted,
Cloudless is the sky.
…
Yet my home's still somehow standing,
I'm where there used to be a fence.
At the threshold of life's past joys,
And the echoes of lament.
…
I glance back at the wasteland,
Long gone are the fires.
My gaze lingers on my Vulture,
To leave is my desire.
…
But we all have ghosts within our past,
Comes the moment to confront mine.
To step five years into the past,
And further back in time.