The sky stays a sorrowful silver,
From the reflection of a graying ocean.
There's not a ripple in the water
And the air is void of any motion.
Barren soil and nuclear hazes,
Blistering heat and wicked winters,
Ashes rain from awesome blazes,
Skeletal cities showered in cinders.
Charred silhouettes that once were trees,
And vast rolling hills are no more green,
Great woodlands brought to their knees
Now ashy and plastered in a sooty sheen.
Survivor’s skin blackened with blisters,
Living in a world of wreckage,
Far off screams so faint they’re almost whispers,
But still convey a solemn message.
Heaps of bodies on big bonfires,
Giving off a toxic smoke,
Melted planes and tanks make great pyres:
The ironic sick semblance of a tragic joke.
And those alive enough to remember,
Are yearning for Earth's last November,
The cataclysm this December,
Everything that was is ember...
Published by Bourbon, cigarettes and syllables
Poet, unshaven bum, veteran, punk rock enthusiast...I got it all going on.
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