An attempted sketch in blank verse...

                         1

Relics of houses standing stout attest
to moral fibers lost, a vague outline
in disrepair; its shingles, failing walls
are cracking needing care, still breathing haunts
a grimly silhouette half dead in time.
It may reduce to ash, but here it stands.
It stands as things do, questing grim solace
to grind a stone to dust and rise again,
relics of houses, standing stout attest.

                          2

A winter snow has blanketed the lands
it covers woods, the garden world is iced,
still birds are singing, fauns are prancing, rays
of sun in shining warmth and joyous life,
as deer and elk so sip of streams, in calm.
The garden has reclaimed the land of men,
Adam nor Eve, are sensed, as they are dreams;
a winter snow has blanketed the lands.

                            3

Still, shadows seen on woodland edges made
a moment here or there, as ghosts of grand
violence and graceful pasts, silent remnants
of men. The speed of fate unnoticed slipped
by and a fear arose in loud protests,
as death so claims, the world of men shudders.
In fiery rockets falling from the sky
the towns had burned and men alone to run,
so fled to hills of darker wood, to breathe
Still, shadows seen on woodland edges made.