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.
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