Great spires of glass and gold shine evergreen in the darkness of shadow.
The lone light in the sea of black beacons home a feeling felt briefly, sweetly, never lost in the darkness of sorrow.
Towers of blood and spite reach towards the heavens akin to a child begging for mothers milk. Ragged cloth and thick soot bellows from the towers destined to blanket the sky in silk.
Rays of light cascade the void, a crusade in holy vain.
Chaos retreats in the golden embrace, forgotten once more to the righteous flame.
Shadows roam but now far away, for the spire of sight births the day.
