A Fortnight poem

A storm descends, a bus takes flight,

A hundred souls, in panicked plight.

They plummet down, a pixel rain,

To build and fight, and rise again.

From Pleasant Park to Tilted Towers,

A frantic hunt for gathered powers.

The pickaxe swings, a wooden clang,

For brick and metal, strong and sang.

The circle shrinks, a deadly snare,

A frantic rush, a rising fear.

From bush to fort, a hidden gaze,

A sudden shot, in hazy maze.

The dance of builds, a frantic spree,

A staircase climbs, for victory.

The sniper's aim, a distant crack,

A falling foe, no turning back.

The emotes flash, a victory dance,

A fleeting crown, a lucky chance.

From default skin to legend's gleam,

A digital dream, a vibrant scheme.

But fleeting fame, and endless grind,

For cosmetic flair, the soul you bind.

A virtual war, a painted scene,

In Fortnite's realm, where dreams convene.