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At The Will of The World
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Dark Poetry A bell tolls in a distance from the church up on the hill.
Resonating through the caverns of the labyrinth—crumbled walls constructing the maze of debris.
The city has been destroyed.
Nothing but ash and broken concrete remain.
Darkness has taken the name of the vast ruins, leaving the sacred ground defiled—unholy.
The cathedral stands not but on one beam of hope, the structure failing in rapid decay.
The bell tolls in a distance from the church that craves to fall.
Wretched are the ones who have passed in the city—names written in expanses of marble stone.
Their nature has veiled their worth.
The cannibalistic birthed their own demise.
Existence of the flesh—the nativity of their extinction.
Instinct sank below and the human race has perished.
Deified are the lost souls that still wander the moonlit graveyard of wreckage.
And a bell tolls in the distance, its rich, deep bellow fading as the church on the hill tilts and tumbles.
The final beam of hope diminished.
Cracked and snapped.
And we all fall down.
