『 act XIX: dying. 』

8 1 1
                                        

an area of the grove,

untouched,

still rotting,

decorated with death.

decay litters the rotten dirt,

barren of all life.

.

.

.

it will heal with time,

slowly,

surely,

it will heal.

for now,

it is but a remnant,

of the war which blot out the sun.

.

.

.

oh,

how tragic.

among this sea of decay ...

⑄ 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚛𝚘𝚠'𝚜 𝚓𝚘𝚞𝚛𝚗𝚊𝚕 ⑄Where stories live. Discover now