I squint through the haze and peer at my bleeding, blistered feet.
They whisper walk down the wasted ground of a ruined street.
All around, the scorching breeze burns me with sour red ash.
I can feel the sting, fresh on the flesh of my back-I feel the pulsing, pulsing, pulsing.
I wrap what is left of this old, old shawl to my worn, con-caving arms.
I thrust my form against the orange smog that chocks me still.
The crumbled mountains litter the seared floor with bitter refuse- the split sky came crashing to brake the soil in seven spider webbing cracks.
My very veins ache with the spread of old,  how mature in my years I have come to be. 
My callused bones weep right along with their master-they are so sorry to have given out.
So fast did they take their last-so mumbled was their sorrows- their goodbyes.
“Armageddon.”  I nod as my eyes are peppered with the streaked dust-streaked with the biting prick of metal, dust, and souls once forgotten, forgotten again.
The sun frisks through the creators eviction ink-a feral child still yet.
It smears the thick, ebony substance on its face like a little boys warrior paint.
Slowly ripping-sliding its claws down black, black plumes; It screams one last cry of brutal, savage ire.
Thus and forevermore no existence is found, for today is the day that the sun went to war with the ground.