The city's skyline is lit with flame, with my fingers tracing its ashes like ancient latin scripture on stone. Your cries are echoeing through the midnight hollows of our once pretty past. Words and actions are useless now, days like these make the sun decay in its own flame for fear of destruction.

And that is how it is.

Our life blooms in seasons these days. Winter is for pure perfections to thrive, summer is when we burn. We are burning now and dead tomorrow, never again to live for what we might have seen if we hadn't been so ignorant.

And this is how it is.