When they come I’ll still be here
sitting in my favorite chair.
Masked, with weapons I’ve no doubt,
muted brains that no more care
ravaged by the demon clan,
remnants of the age of man.
Nature’s treasures gone to waste
torn and twisted show their might,
stripped their skin of gentleness,
blinded to eternal night.
Lost they stagger, rise and fall
following the banner’s call.
Grayness in the branches hangs.
Screeching rain unseen by eyes
pierces with its talons sharp
heeding not the pleading cries.
Chaos treads where once was peace.
Will this madness never cease?
