Creed of Core: Carbon

Indeed it will be “transformed utterly, utterly transformed,” terrible but sure no beauty.

Rocks, trees, grainy amber waves grisly as Mother, six feet under. Momma! Momma! Carbon. I knew her as skin. I remember her as skin.
Like I recall that that car I’d saved pennies (shiny money melts like snowflakes on a stove) to possess; like I remember my high-school sweet-heart’s teenage girls; my sultry wife; the color flash color-bled, counterfeit Suns that (over)exposed it all.
Same old, same old: idiots with matches playing god created all this sudden empty, silent breathless, burnt black Dawn.
The Sun also rises, still, yet, again, concealed by heavy metal clouds, a leaden pall, warped woof of ash.

Hands wove this. Hands of men who have no hands now, none any human eyes might know.
Transformed utterly, utterly transformed to greasy turds of coal; the world a big burnt marshmallow licked by fire.
So, spit on the ashes. Douse your white-hot rocks. Enjoy this after-life of cold, soot, mud.