Maybe we get there in time. Maybe we can pull back from the abyss. Teetering on the cliffs — dancing on the edge, believing in flowers that stop the guns.
Wheels clawing at nothing. A relic of peace and visions. Somewhere, some simpleton believed in forever, but forever got high and drove too fast.
The abyss, darling, is never what they tell you. It doesn’t yawn, it grins. Power isn’t painted in colours; it’s written in blood and silence. The Powers of Bleakness stare back, cackle, and recuperate.
The children still offer daisies to the darkness. Perhaps the Bleakness just needs a hug.