The sun burns red and seeps into the skies.
The blood runs red as the city slowly dies.
The witnesses are ghosts upon these ruins.
The citizens are phantoms dressed in ruins.
The rust is slow and creeps upon these ghosts.
It slowly grows and preys upon these hosts.
This world will burn and crumble to the ground.
These souls will burn - now fallen are the crowned.
The dead are lost, too far beyond the grave.
Their souls are frost - the winter burned the brave.
The sun still burns in this unforgiving sky.
We cannot fly, but fall - from our stolen height.
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I've edited this one over and over again but I honestly still don't like it. Any suggestions?
- Polygon