Everything.
Everything is broken.
Rubble and ash laying around in pieces,
smoldering.
It was my home.
Fall with the storm,
it whispers, for many have told you that
you shall bend to the winds,
crouch beneath the pelting rain,
and cower to the rumbles of thunder.
You will fall to it.
But, see, I have my own light.
Small it may be, dim it may be,
but it still burns.
If everything was broken,
then why am I still here?
I am stronger than the storm,
I cry to the skies.
I see the world how it is
instead of how it should be:
No God.
No love.
No fear of dying.