I saw minds crack when the dark Night came;
They were uprooted like pavement,
cracked like cement when an old, gnarled oak creeps its roots beneath.
They snapped likes bones, brittle, not enough calcium—
a sign that mother neglected her duties. Drink more milk.
Lightning burst overhead, as a promise of destruction,
and the children applauded in assemblies
for meaningless certificates and the death of the politician.
Overhead, a storm raged, with the fury of Zeus pontificating
on the whither-tos and why-fors of death.
I heard a musician play a lonely ballad,
surrounded as he was by the ever approaching floods.
He was an island of art, as the paintings he had coveted melted away
in the heated Pacific Ocean—which boiled the fish alive.
Haunting melodies, and a haunting end to the guitarist.
The world burned with fires that froze the fiercest,
and whilst humanity screamed aloud to a thousand creators
(with the atheists praying to the objective Scientific Laws),
I drew up the history of the Apocalypse with crusted ink on my own flesh;
(a history none but Silence would ever read)
