because I'm trying to write a poem.
So I'll write it here for once,
a novel idea.
Nuclear Winter.
Burrowed deep,
we slept, eyes wide open.
We peered -like fish- wide-eyed
into the dark, a thick cloud,
something of a mask for the
fly-eyed faces that drone
overhead.
Sky bleeds to land bleeds to sea,
it has for months,
like this impending nuclear winter,
I stand waiting for the snow,
my eyes glued to the diving planes,
these metal-clad birds that swoop
like no other, in a starless sky
that is all that is remembered.
Screeching of these new birds,
high-pitched and mocking,
a warning best obeyed,
though the red wailing bird
laughs shrilly in our faces,
as we are huddled in the ground.
Tripping over our own pairs of feet
down flights of stairs
into cloudy metro tunnels,
pressed to the cool, sleek tiles,
who don't know what these birds preach.
The slick tiles like fallen stars,
are an anchor in the dark.
Whispered prayers to a god,
blinded by the plight of annihilation.
Our stretching hands are pushed back
from the heavens, sobs quelled
by a toppling house, a ruined palace.
We stand in wreckage up to our
necks, creeping round corners in the
grey that passes for daylight.
In the grey one shade above dark.
In the night, pitch blackened and still,
insistent cries of warring little metal birds,
the whiz-pop and quick flash like firecrackers.
-It lights the sky in brilliance-
Crouching in the ground, praying on beads
and on this new blackened raid.
The birds are silent,
standing in the smoking remains, the
red wailers are still.
Standing straight and alert,
imagined ears perked up.
On the street corner a green haze of
light flickers.
Illuminates
the snow,
I have waited so long for.
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