[ the Inspiration to this poem: https://youtu.be/gvWDOIiocuE ]
Cold wind howling,strangling the trees.
Ground was growling,
hearts would freeze.
Freeze out of fear as the world was ending.
Woods were burning and people dying.
The ending seemed to have arrived,
The apocalyptic riders rised.
Far away in the darkest woods,
one person would run against the wind.
Would keep himself covered with a hood.
Seemed steady - to the ground pinned.
Screams and thunder faded away,
when he reached the top of a silent hill.
The howling stopped and the world seemed still,
But he still felt like death's prey.
Afraid of the end but eager to create,
He put down a bucket with light green.
The Sky was his canvas and he would wait,
'til clouds of smoke would have fade.
When the canvas turned to nightmare blue,
His inspiration finally grew.
Put his hand into the green,
pulled it out, the creating was about to begin.
Clashed the green into the air,
it would stay, gravity didn't seem to care.
Drawing a circular line,
Brighter than anything left it would shine.
He was painting,
He was sculpting.
He was telling,
His Hands would reach into the void,
Putting his thoughts into a silent voice.
Trying to warn and prepare for the harm,
He knew soon was nothing left to keep him warm.
The end was here and the last message,
Was put into thin and fading air.
Left was a horrifying wreckage.
What was next of the curse to bear?
Empty world turning,
Nothing is for eternity.
One message staying,
Ruling was anarchy.