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by Cuthbert

The howls of pain as each life ends,
The end of our world, at hand that fate lends,
The boil of blood and smell of burnt skin,
One cannot envisage the pain that they're in,
The sun is relentless destroying all in it's path,
Including the people, enduring Hell's wrath,
Our ancestors warned, but advice was ignored,
And now we will lose the work of our Lord,
As the dawn breaks, the trees turn to ash,
And bridges melt, as dark and light clash,
Now the lights gone, and there exists only night,
No history no diary of one worlds plight,
The souls drift away to be one with the stars,
Pain, conflict both vanquished, as if behind bars,
And where there was colour and life, there's just space,
A species of suicidals, the human race?

© Cuthbert 2011


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