I’m going south to Galveston, to watch the end of the world, the fires coming out of the sea and the black storms roar down from the sky.
There is to be no Rapture; the holy rollers will suffer just the same as us.
On those once prime beaches I will look to those churning tempests to swallow and the infernal torment of hope.
There will be no pretty girls and sultry times come summer, only stone and black glass.
We can’t change are natures, and so Satan takes his prize of corrupting the world, laughing at how fucking easy it was.
Young love is no more on these beaches, no sweetness in another summer.
It’s all gone.