Pieces falling off.
Peace is falling off.
The sky is burning, and the clock is ticking.
Yet my world stirs still.
In a slow game of chess
when the order called for a car chase.
Dust and rubble stir in warm wind
catching the dance of embers and contagion.
Sick. Black. And dry.
So quiet. So lonely.
So dry.
No barrels.
No bottles.
No sips.
No drops.
Thirsting in a lake.
Hungering in pasture.
Blind in sunlight.
Alone in a mob.
My world crumbles
devoured by ambitious flame.
Leaving only charcoal and cinder
to trace the path? To tell the tale?
To ward off trespassers.