Burning minions, lathered in the rich arc of red fires doused with the embers of hatred personified, spin like lime-lemonade down the faucet of empty hearts. Do not revive that which does not need resuscitation. Hope floats and flies on the wings of a sacrificial albatross. That which we worked so hard for, crumbles like a cheap sand castle in a lightening storm, tearing down the walls while I melt fervently. Staccato of rapid gunfire sounds like music to deaf ears. The fresh fragrance of smoldering lead projectiles. Jupiter-sized hailstones thrown like grenades against innocence exploding. Screamed whispers gargled in the throats of people no longer alive, afterthoughts of war. Happily ever after, the land of make-believe where cheap lives are dashed like seasoning salt. Perspective is seared into sizzling layers of the stratosphere. Cinderella sweet, bittersweet fairy tale ruined by extinguished sunsets.