Wandering slowly into the weeping mist. A flame seizes the smouldering ruin, and bites On stubborn stalks that crackle as they resist. Let them go to the fire with never a look behind. That world that was ours is a world that is ours no more. Earth cares for her own ruins, naught for ours.
Nothing is certain, only the certain spring.
That's a strangely comforting thought. All rights reserved.