I am your deepest fear born from the long, dark night.
I am the stab of terror that wakes you with a scream in your throat.
Your walls, which you have built so high, shatter beneath my claws. The spears you take up in defense of one another break against my body, their wielders lost in my all-consuming blaze.
With a storm overhead, you do not quake and tremble because the thunder shakes the very air. No, you feel that shiver across your skin because it makes you think of wings descending upon you from above.
You and your kind claim that death is heartless and cold, that it robs from the rich and poor alike. This is a secret fear, a buried truth that you keep in your hearts. Yet when I find you, and you look into the depths of my eye, you will understand that it is much worse than that.
Death comes with an endless hatred and a cruel malice. Your accomplishments mean nothing to me; it is the very things you build to honor your short, pitiful lives that stoke my rage. Before your lives end in my jaws and flame, I will make you understand how insignificant you are.
The skies are mine, and from them I bring fire and death.

Art is  firefeathers