The Waste Part 1

And so he came upon a dark land
Forgotten by the benevolent sun
Cold, lonely howls of wind
Wander through the air
And the wolves chase them

Forms of fog stand in the low valleys,
Stagnant giants with tendrils of gray, gripping the earth
Shifts and shades lumber down from the
Mountains’ black to stroll in garbs of smoke

The Waste
It is a sad country
And none will visit with joy or desire
There is no morning or day,
Save the night-lights and illusions

He walks through this place
With heavy head hung low

Alone

The Waste is a thief,
Of warmth and breath
A friend of foe.

He attempts a smile, but fails.
To smile is to escape,
And there is no escape from the Waste.

And so he walks on,
Down and up the barren hills.
Into the deep valleys and lowlands,
And across the fields of gray.

Everywhere there is a cold,
Wild air.

The wicked witch wind blows through the land,
Whirling dust into
Black dancers fly along paths that
Spiral aimlessly in the distance.

And as he tries to remember better days in better lands
He is forsaken.

For in the Waste there is no memory or hope
And there is no escape

Dark clouds

Snow begins to fall, icy whorls that
Whip through the land.
Bitter cold envelops all and the Waste is painted white.

A pure, ghost white
That brightens the badlands
In illusion

All is cold
And there is no escape.