Tripods set alight.
We are the chosen.
Havoc—
Oh, glorious havoc!
Blitz, blitz!
Nuclear detonation to the east, my bones are visible.
The sessions begin anew.
That wretched circus smile.
Yellow teeth.
No one flossed today.
Have it, oh, haVE IT!
Empty malls and swirling Pall Malls.
Load the shells.
Dragon’s breath colors the gray skies.
Precipitation highlights the corpses in the mud.
Barbed wire pricks.
The skin loses its color.
The eyes roll.
She is coming.
The eighth hour.
She is coming.
She has heard your prayers.
And has since then granted—
The finest apocalypse.
-
Author:
Ryan Modawell (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: September 26th, 2021 23:39
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 5
Offline)
Comments1
without context, sadly
I lack the intellect to unravel and appreciate this enticingly unique poem,
but your artistry and poetic sincerity, that's just glaringly obvious
even to those lacking, like me..
thanks for choosing to share
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