"Countdown"
prelude to 'Conscience'
Cries the morning, of a wretched night;
Binds the living, to it’s urban plight.
Feared the most, are sights unseen;
Yet still we beg, for it to be a dream.
A waning sun, that once burned bright;
Crawls from the horizon, to barely light.
A race of humans, once thought fast;
Now they only hope, that they will last.
