Tumbling between the layers of the dead, anger coursed through his veins as he saw their beseeching, eyes filled with helplessness. Churning waters of blood writhed between the ramified buildings, their crumbling fingers trying to hastily grab a glimpse of hope. His eyes stung, but not with the flitting pieces of ash. Nothing took a single breath. Piles of rubble were everywhere, it seemed as if it swelled each time, he approached it. Souls scattered by the hollow, wispy wind. As the sun surrendered to the moon, it seemed as if the city was fading away...into the distance. The wind whispered false hopes as it stabbed his scarred arms like salt to a wound. Simmering between the desolate soldier his anger progressed into a fortissimo of bass and timpani as darkness beat like a drum. Visceral fear strangled him as he walked to the camp, just to find out that all that remained was tatters of cloth doused in blood. The land was equivalent to Dante's seventh layer of hell. He shuddered, shivering like the asphalt trees beside him, suppressing a cry of agony, the wounded soldier trudged on, it was as if Earth’s gravity was growing by every second. The sky mourned, tears falling like streamers as bathed the ashen city forming pools of viscous grime that slithered on the road. Drunk with a lust for revenge, the man, his usually deep, soulful eyes, reflected the scene as it turned into pools of red. The scraggy man deliriously walked through the predawn mist, into the abyss.