ACHING VERSES FROM THE BLEAK WASTELAND

The wasteland stretches aimlessly, a canvas of rusted metal and broken dreams. Screams echo through the desolate winds, telling tales of glory. Here, amongst the ruins, poets find their voice, bleeding verse onto parchment as pale as the sky. Their words are barren, a mirror to the spirit of this cursed land. Aching for rain, they write of skies