As the stormy weather rolls in, and the clouds shift, blanketing the world. The corrupted souls follow suit. Like an army, lining up, ever at the ready for a looming battle. Feigning death, they draw their blade, glistening of fresh blood, but naught been drawn across flesh.
The tolls of the bells echo though a silent stare, solid black like the poisonous night. A battle, never to be started, and naught to end. Raging forever in silence, forever unseen. Felt by only who is to witness the ache or each clash. Mind, torn, apart and afar, such as the bodies of those giving in to the end of something simple. The storm rages, passing from mind to mind, heart to heart, and soul to soul.
SHOUT OUT TO THE HEAVENS, if you dare, for they shall not reply. Fear the end, and embrace the present. The clouds shift to allow light, seeming to represent hope. No longer. Forgotten and lost, in a pool of dark, liquid as it may, but solid in lethality. SHOUT OUT LOUD TO THE EARTH, but does it listen. Neither to help nor hear. Hell seems imminent, but naught does such exist, for it shall be in consent of the dangers of this battle.
A war cry calls out, piercing the very meaning of it all. SHOUT OUT LOUD TO THE OTHERS, and provide the help that is longed by the lesser of them. Give the ear to listen to what they have to say, and shift the clouds to form the treaty or happiness. For is it ever lasting, or shall it be broken? To set fire to the compassion towards death, and lessen the grip in life. SHOUT.
