The last photograph

 

These bountiful fields

now left unconcealed,

unclaimed, no flags proudly

proclaiming them in anyone's name.

For names now sit in the dusty ashes

of what used to exist.

No gravestones, just dust,

and the grasses expand

to reclaim the parched land.

The scorched earth.

The deserted sands.

These fallen islands.

 

And the clocks of the universe turn...

 

But no-one hears them tick.

 

And in the fields where cities once sat,

lies a photograph, and

a Geiger counter that clicks,

the only reminders, that humanity

once used to exist.

 

The last photograph.

 

Radiation speckled

selfie screams,

influencer wet dream,

still craving attention,

chasing likes as time runs out

and the end sears over the vision.

Crowds panic in circled fear,

flocking as the light starts to dim,

birds to the roost, and night is falling.

 

Blossoming light of fission.

A mushrooming fireball,

fierce heat. A fumbled

nuclear football.

Burnt tissue vapour

No paper trail to follow,

the cookie crumbles

as man falls to the roll of a dice

and the cameras no longer roll

for there will be no news tomorrow

as memory dies.

 

Bright light,

then

darkness.

Endless

darkness

and then

 

nothing

 

but night

and a

Polaroid

memory

for no-one

to find.

The last

photograph

left behind,

 

a stray.

 

A

reminder

that life once

wandered

these fields,

and

could

be so

 

unkind.

Tracking our dreams

 

A church flies by,

caressing

the heavens, piercing the veil

of now and evermore.

Thunderstuck, the tower weeps,

and in the eyes of the girl sat

tapping away at her screen,

sadness seeps into

a silent wish,

as the countryside

flourishes past

in a restless sleep, brought on

by counting the passing sheep.

 

Is she writing a memoir,

a novel, or working on the train?

Her fingers drum again, like the

rain pelting the carriage

to wake the slumbering dreams.

 

All I know is she is, like me,

away in a dream,

of green swirls

blurring into

the blue comfort

of a blanket unfurled.

 

Fading memories,

and stories blooming into view.

 

But whilst I'm sat here

watching the world

blending the view,

my dreams are bright

for I'm dreaming

of me and 

you.

Sat in our own light,

in our own storyline.

And I think of us, wondering

if reality will grant a wish,

or if the distant rumbles

of thunder are going to crash.

 

Will we one day sit,

happiness in our eyes,

writing our own memoirs

of dreams we will one day

live, or will we sit

like the girl on the train

passing through as our time

takes other tracks?

If love was

 

If love was only

a fleeting feeling,

would it really feel

like a heart stopping,

or like time has ceased

to mean a thing?

Or would it be

the feeling of a hurricane

blowing you off your feet,

sweeping you up in its hands,

and lifting you into space

to feel the enormity of its

touch?

 

If love had a colour,

would it be red or would

it shed the restraints

of our spectrum

and paint itself

in stardust

instead?

Would it flow over the canvas

In liquid state, or like

life growing across

a world reborn in its wake?

 

If love was a place,

would it be a land, a continent,

or the oceans and lakes in between?

Would it tower like

the mountains

upon which we stand, or would it be

the clouds that hold

those mountains in hand?

 

Or would it be the way

you place your hand on my heart

taking a beat and conjuring

butterflies in its place,

and as I feel them bursting to life,

is this the feeling

of love starting to thrive

because love is alive?

 

If love had a name would

it be written in cursive script,

would the ink drip

across the page

in the silken fluid motion

of a waterfall washing down

the stones below,

Or would it be torn right

from the pages, ripped from

the stars and screamed

with the passion

of every burning flame?

 

And if love had a name,

then would it be yours?