(updated) blood red sky

The crimson sky foretells our fate, A harbinger of our mortal state. Birds grounded, unable to soar, Asking questions we can't ignore. Hell's shadow looms, embracing fear, Drawing close, the end draws near. No script foretold this grim idea, No escape, nowhere to steer. Running futile, hiding in vain, Praying it's a trick of the brain.