The world today with wildfire spread of imaginations
A conflagration of fearful tones
From the vines they whisper and the ears shall receive
But these vines yield no grapes
And it's leaves are drying of rot and fungus with a stench of times to come
Death has cleared a path through the brushes
It seeks to harvest the peace of the calm
The calm shall lose it's sheen as a dying leaf
And the souls of the lost, thistling spirits that boldly advance to the fiery sun of anger
As by night they frost, a chill of none caring
The whispers still echoing in the ears
Are like wasps that sting endlessly
And the cacklings of froward crows
That laugh at the fallen countenance of our faces in our calamity
Shall give way to shattering shreiks of wickedness
Vultures that shall swoop down to consume all things living or dead
Our fear has planted this seed
And it pushes for it's germination