Walking amongst
blackened flowers,
a sad sea of sorrow,
where the waves don’t merely rise,
they surge like a zombie army
created by loves demise.
Amongst bare trees, naked shivers
in the howl of the wind.
They sense nothing,
just darkness.
A world under grey sky.
The grass dead.
once flowers grown
in this place
would put on a bountiful display,
but now
patchy, deep brown,
muddy stains just reflect the pain
of the lives we threw away.
It's so hard to look back
like staring into the sunlight,
a world from which we fled
into a realm of the dead.
Ruins sit where streets should be,
old crypts of history,
left to the black slime that oozes
over everything. This is their world now.
We had our chance, our time in the sun,
our lives, but we neglected them.
We misled ourselves into a world of dread,
where a coin meant more than a flowerbed.
Where notes where our only hopes,
and love was a selfish act.
Where we didn't care who we hurt
as long as we got, where?
As long as we reached, where?
As long as we never stayed still.
It was kill or be killed
and we didn't shed a tear.
Amongst these dead roses,
a figure slumps.
One survivor out of millions.
Was he the lucky one,
or the most damaged of all?
He saw the world fall,
saw the end of it all.
The world he knew crumbled
into the debris and rubble
of a better day.
He picked the roses
let them cut his fingers,
shards of blood, glass fragments
blackened from the hurt inside.
He remembered the days before.
When the darkness began to pour.
He saw the colour begin to fade.
He felt the sting of that burning rain,
the rain that left scars over his face,
like teardrops cried
for what was once the human race.
He let the glass fragment roses
cut deep into his hand.
Happy to be feeling hurt,
at what had long ago died.
Thanks for reading
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Peace, Love & Poetry
Kyle
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