'At the End Of The Pointed Finger'

The old smoke lies bleeding,
The wails and cries of sirens scream like banshees,
Echoing across the capital.

Red and blue flashing lights stream through the carnage and chaos,
As strobes against the empty faces of the blood stained
Ants that litter the streets wandering
Aimlessly away from the nest,

An unknown entity lies at the end of the pointed finger,
As the storm subsides
The skies weep down on Old London Town.