Wasteland

We lack so much. Nothing is here anymore. No tunes nor melodies to bring orderly peace. An empty wasteland where the trees have died and the vultures have fallen from above. Much like the doves within your heart. 

The ground below cracks beneath your dirty feet, the surface so delicate like a porcelain doll. Mutant kids with broken songs have melted into a puddle of ammunition awaiting to fire. The birds listen for your song in the morning, when time is so silent, so bleak. Their beaks muddled with blood as they tear themselves apart from the silence suffocating them. 

This wasteland listens and glistens with desire, ready to alight your world afire. Soon you'll find its too late to sing your song.