A Book of Poetry 5 - Misc.

On the Eighth of May

On the Eighth of May,

What year I cannot say;

Started dreary and dark.

Twas only nine,

And by that time,

No clock did rhyme,

That morn.

The sun did not rise,

Not in the sky,

Not underground,

The moon stayed high up,

Full and centered.

The city awoke,

Shuddering around,

Screeching bounds

Across buildings,

And sidings.

Cars rumbled

Onto concrete highways,

Off of asphalt driveways,

Into the streets.

People shuddering,

Groaning,

Moaning,

Heading to their

Work Destinations,

Vacations to the basin

Of the toxic bay,

Peeling skin,

Dysfunctional minds.

Jolting sensations

Leave dull responses,

Dead reposes,

Absent souls.

Shadows marr the streets,

In town and out,

City and Country

In the same shroud.

Drained husks

Under cloudless voids,

Semi-automated messes,

Death glances

And stares them down.

The Eighth of May,

Soulless,

Devoid of Life,

Was not yet halfway over,

Nay,

Time ceased to be;

Day and Night ceased too,

Atmospheres of doom,

Colliding and crashing.

Dead roses,

And poses,

Dream of a time before,

It happened,

It occurred,

The searing light,

The cleansing wind,

The Great Hot Flash.

Chemicals mingled,

Settled down,

Danced around,

In streams,

Rivers,

Lakes,

Till all glowed a morbid purple,

With splotches of sickly green.

They tried to hid it,

They failed,

Leaving the rest to perish,

To rot,

To die,

While they waited,

And gloated,

And boasted,

In their bunkers.

The black rain fell,

Lifeless,

Dull,

A black mist enveloped the streets,

Hiding,

Masking,

Killing,

The noise.

The city still goes on,

Life is normal,

When it isn't,

Death pursues.

On the Eight of May,

The years long past;

Silence remains.