In a land of wonder with roads paved all in gold, some dark secret festers.
In the sky where brilliant white birds should fly beneath the golden sun, angry clouds boil, accompanied by black winged shadows with talons glinting red.
In the streets where the children should play, running and laughing, only rats scurry, hunting out scraps of rotting flesh.
In the gutter where water sould stream so crystal clear, instead flows sludge, thick and rotten, a river of refuse.
On closer inspection, the cobble stones are not of gold at all, but rather are coated in old flaking paint, now turned a sickly brown with age.
- Mike Wood