Bitter Rain

I had this quaint little dream once to become a famous journalist and report on the most eventful of events. 

But that was before.  That was during the Last Peace, as some are calling it now.  Before the grass was charred black and the cars turned to metal skeletons and the rain to bitter acid.

Now there’s nothing but ruins and radiation and sickness and hunger and murder.  Blood in the streets and poison in the food.  Every breath I take coats my lungs in ash again.

This will be my final report.  Pray, Nation, for deliverance. 

God save America.