The Dream

Waking from a troubled dream, I'm haunted by the things I've seen. A world on fire with seas of glass, and burnt and whithered trees and grass. Corpses lay upon the land People charred and turned to sand The wind blew with the stench of death I tasted death in every breath I searched for birds up in the air But only ashes fell from there As cinders rained down from the sky I fell upon the ground to cry And when I looked at my own hands and all I saw was blackened sand That's when I knew it was my end, and blew away upon the wind.