Here there are old things.
Here across endless fields of dead flowers, ash incessantly rains. Here the walls hold just enough paint to show you they once weren't grey. Here the paint holds just enough colour to show you that it has faded. Here old things hold together enough to show you their anger.
Black sockets beneath cold mountains howl and bay at empty tracks, twisted tongues leading out of them. Leading into them. Here red sparks still jump under the ash, ugly imps picking at the twilight sky from beneath.
Here the ground fights in vain against smoking metal heaps. They kick and screech in her mouth. Pulling teeth to prevent being swallowed. They hiss and creak and spew black blood, thick drops flying up into the poisoned air.
Here there are old things, still sucking greedily at the dry marrow of the land. Burning with malice at their demise.
Here there are old things, here there are bad things, here there are things that just refuse to die.
Here across endless fields of dead flowers, ash incessantly rains. Here the walls hold just enough paint to show you they once weren't grey. Here the paint holds just enough colour to show you that it has faded. Here old things hold together enough to show you their anger.
Black sockets beneath cold mountains howl and bay at empty tracks, twisted tongues leading out of them. Leading into them. Here red sparks still jump under the ash, ugly imps picking at the twilight sky from beneath.
Here the ground fights in vain against smoking metal heaps. They kick and screech in her mouth. Pulling teeth to prevent being swallowed. They hiss and creak and spew black blood, thick drops flying up into the poisoned air.
Here there are old things, still sucking greedily at the dry marrow of the land. Burning with malice at their demise.
Here there are old things, here there are bad things, here there are things that just refuse to die.