Ancient Art of the Ages

The bell sung its song, lyrics through the air, But the mortals below must all beware. As pasts collapse, slowly being buried, Aged tales and matured myths are 'corrected.’ Trees bleed, dropping the ancient past of us, Wind howls out for a saviour to arise. Windows crack and shatter upon nature, Something is in the way of our future. Crisp rocks and shores are attacked constantly, By the puzzled sea’s smacks against them. With no guide on where Earth will travel next, All the maps can show are shades of perplexed. The storm has passed, but ruins are weathered, Matured myths and tales have been covered.