Your horror is worth its weight in gold,
In the abyss,
Down the ruins of old,
A bloodied motherland,
a mere call to the skies,
Lacerated bodies,
and putrid lies,
Upon Lucifer’s decree,
you’ll hypnotise,
Your transcendental trepidation,
Your dreaded glee,
The despot will remain,
Ne’er flee,
For the time has come for mangled innards,
To grace the terra,
As the iris would greet broken sclera.
For tell me, sir,
Have I now become your enemy by telling you the truth?
Does shell shock terror fill your eyes as you picture the void?
Do you dream of decay and decimation, as quandary proliferates?
All beings shall soon be rendered void,
For the madness shall spread,
and engulf as all,
For now our caterwauls of misery are,
nothing but ruth bawls.
By Prerana Srinivasan
Crimson Skies 