The sky bursting with puffs of smoke,
The blue covered by the light grey hue,
None that a writer could ever write,
But an artist's feather that flew,
The skeletons of the Earth naked,
It's feather's plucked by the fierce cold,
The young and the restless fought on,
But solemnly did the old,
The salad of the ground stood still,
Wavering only to the wind's chill of a chime,
It held on dearly to the Earth,
But it's only a matter of time,
The worries of the world came by,
But there is one definite certainty,
Rest is for the wicked,
Definitely not for the vigilante.
