Monday, November 19

somewhere_voices. somewhere_voices_

{N.b. This probably isn't what you think it's about}

The children were just names scribbled on tattered paper, 
left strewn about the grey rubble wasteland. 

They were countless.
I was there with them,
transcended them,
knew of them,
pitied them,
for they were pitiful.

I wandered purposefully,
as the faceless gathered up paper from the detritus,
the waste of the floors of ruined factories that stretched on and on,
ruin after ruin,
green hills in the distance.

The paper turned to dust.

in the shattered still-standing remnants of our chapel
– flaking it was –
the floor gave way,
and I fell into the acidic ruin of its womb.
Waist-deep I thrashed for a moment.
And then unharmed,
I stood looking upward, at the rotting ceiling, 
more a spider web than building or canopy,
maybe even heaven's rot.
Why I never burned, 
none of us knew.

I climbed the desolate frames and debris, 
wanting to know, 
and pretending not to, 
my love buried on the moon.

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