no time to run, our time is gone

In the husky breath of the morning air, leaves make their way from safe haven to bold ground, cold with the promise of death. As so lightning and thunder warn from above and vanish within seconds in the suspended dust, right before our eyes.

If our breathing soothes and our sleeping lies right ahead, we should know what we already know: now was always too soon, and now is sooner too late.

There from the skies come the angels who sing the battle. Their tangled voices, soft and cool, whisper the ending of an era that’s no longer ours. For the time for redemption is up, the always living sins of our dead souls will pay the price. How long can it take so that their ever so quiet voices break the curse cast by our stolen heaven?

Author's Note

Please ignore grammar mistakes.