Sand paper shores *******he seasons to shift into a new dawn. I believed the skies would forever hold their pillows damp with the rain, along with the sunshine. Can you smell the plague come pouring down like a summer storm? See the hollowed graves scattered with chipped fingernails or the swaying and bent lampposts observing a fractured terrain all displaying carnage. So when the colossal tide of apocalyptic taste is released from our heavenly maker to cleanse this plain anew, who will hold my hand while chosen?