The Beginning Is The End

With life, comes hope.
Until, unexpectedly
the living becomes the dead,
replacing loved ones with corpses.

For a time, years whispered along,
measured by despair and desperation,
from those unfortunate enough to survive
the end of what was once known as humanity.

The sun shines,
a prismatic reminder of times gone by,
the songs of nature silenced,
a long forgotten reminder of the past.

A lone figure studies the desolation,
his face shadowed and worn,
a consequence of traveling
to remnants of civilization long gone.

Bodies line concrete and grass in his path,
each filling the air with the scent of decay.
The aroma of hell on earth,
burning like pepper in the lungs.

Deceased beings lift their heads as he passes,
weakened by starvation,
eager for the taste of his flesh,
unable to do more than twitch and crawl.

He scans the waste,
finding that despite all he's seen,
he's not immune to shock and sadness,
wishing for the life he's lost.

There is nothing he can do
in this cruel place,
no salvation for any pure at heart,
no happy ending in sight.

Once he knew love.
He felt it firsthand,
like the caress of a woman,
the kiss of a lover.

Feelings are memories
slipping through calloused fingers like dry sand,
each grain imprinted,
all that remains of his now broken soul.

The shrill caw of a scavenger eclipses the silence;
a harsh reminder of the new world.
Much like a sharp, penetrating claw to the chest,
easily perceived if not readily accepted.

A house beckons,
untainted and welcoming,
as though the world has stopped
and time has folded.

A white picket fence surrounds the domicile,
with windows hugged by green shutters.
The overgrown lawn is beautiful and thick,
lining blooms reaching for the sky.  

He removes his crudely crafted bow and arrows.
There is no haven for the weak, 
only the strong survive.
He makes due with what is scavenged. 

Nothing opposes him as opens the door.
The aroma of cinnamon hovers in the air.
Pictures of a family adorn the walls,
the inhabitants of this once warm place.

He's like a hawk as he glides down the hall,
looking and listening.
Sounds are living creatures,
a hint of what lingers around every corner.

Upon entering the kitchen, he relaxes.
Tired muscles ease,
shoulders droop,
and adrenaline subsides.

The island counter beckons, 
canisters of food just out of reach,
lined in order of contents.
The floor surrounding the area is clean.

Someone has been here,
wiping away footprints and messes,
offering foot as bait,
the only lure for the rational who are starving.

Diligent, he avoids the cans and explores cabinets.
There is nothing but utensils,
forks and spoons;
items of little importance.

The blow to his head sets him off center and he drops the bow,
a sharp slice to his skull creating a sensation like fireworks.
Skin gives way from his scalp as he pivots,
the warm rush of life from his veins dripping down his nose.

He turns and readies instinctively,
his scabbed fingers grasping the hilt of his knife.
A burst of of pain in his pectoral is blunt not sharp,
not what he anticipated. 

His assailant does not consume human flesh, he realizes.
Motor function is lost upon infection.
There is no trapped soul to defeat.
Only a worthy opponent.