He knew about the coming of a new era, and was bracing himself for the ordeal, seeking retribution for the wounds he could see through the mists of emotion within his mind. He felt the cold metal with his fingers scathed in the alpine armour. The blue of the sky dripping into his eyes and swirling around with the red fear within them, those pools looked magnificent.
The desert within the red scar,
the fury spread wide afar,
he held the mad breath,
within the valleys of a blue death.
It looked like the end of a journey to the people who had seen the holy mayhem take sanity into its stride and loose to the fire that fueled it. Their breath was warm but fast becoming cold and the ash no longer hid red coal. The end of a road, really, the end.
The petty struggle,
The desperate slither,
The roots that wither,
Off the storm that has an eye.
It had come, the end. The era was the end of another and the beginning of one. The storm had ceased and the water still, the civilization lay quiet, subduded, fearful, dead, and in the eye of the storm.