the world is dark,
spinning with silence.
dank fog rolls through
the deserted cities that
vibrate with remembered screams.
great rolling hills,
once spotted with bursts of color,
now stand desolate,
not quite as tall and proud,
but seeming shrunken and inadequate.
it is peaceful here
(in a bleak sort of way),
yet dark tremors of fear
still ripple through,
sending chilling waves of dismay,
but there is no one left
to be afraid.
time does not stand still,
but slips slowly backwards.
nothing changes.
nothing will ever change here.
rustled leaves wave back and forth
in the same never-ending dance.
the wind sings not of life nor death,
not of pain nor ecstasy,
not of desire nor loss,
but it sings of nothingness,
a tuneless drone, lacking in everything.
the world is bare,
not dead exactly,
but without life,
filled with shades of grays,
tinted with reds, the color of dried blood.
 
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