ACHING VERSES FROM THE BLEAK WASTELAND

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