The clanking of hammer against anvil reverberates in the deep.
I stand atop a concrete beast,
staring down into a city of sharp, merciless edges and scattered detritus.
Soot stains gray the sky above. Wisps of smoke rise like tendrils, weaving together to patch any holes in this gloomy dome.
Battle-scarred, apocalyptic isolation.
Atop my perch i watch roaming caravans cautiously trade. Fallen worlds must go back to basics.
Pockets of life burdened with the weight of dying planet.
This is where I stand.
A Lone Wanderer must do what his title entails.
Crimson clouds, falling through dreams onto concrete rubble.
The world haunts my nightmares and I cannot wake up.