“Ah, here is the end,” cites the shivering homeless in the dank alley of an impersonal city.  Sharing breath with no one in a vain attempt to communicate with paper demons and letters etched on last tomorrow’s information.  Excommunicated.  Tirade.  Soaked by tears of a faceless sky, shared by the expensive saline of the well dressed.
“Ah, here is the end,” cries the windswept socialite, atop the archaic clock tower of a snow-blind scene.  Squandering pity with everyone else in a tangible conquest of the high gloss type and trained, the print upon which the world changes.  Drunken.  Forsook.  Felled by winds of the corroded howling populace, taken by the rasps of the victimized.
“Ah, here is the end,” crows the recoiled warrior, buried in the depths of fox held shelters in the killing fields.  Stealing looks over the ever-changing landscape in malevolent orders to memory of justice and worship on headstone.  Marble.  Held-in-line.
Scorched by fires of a morose oblivion, stolen by flames of holy philosophies.