You know this is going to destroy us. That is not a question but a statement.
The brick to the window. The skull to the windshield. The chainsaw to the tree.
It’s all the same. This familiar patch of sky will be our last. Savor it.
Dial in. Dial in. Dial in. We are nothing if not our purpose and ash and free.
It’s inevitable. The destruction, obliteration, and the fleeing evisceration.
How did this wickedness arrive? This nothingness. From where did it arise?
I am the seaside, and you are not. I am the sand, and you are not. I am the wave, and you are not.
Why not? Where did you go? When did it overtake us? This evil. Who is erasing us? Was there a fair warning? Was I asleep, the covers pulled tight to my chin, the clock clanging, and the curtains beckoning? Did I miss all that as I was dreaming of a savannah and hiding in the swaying slender grass of Swaziland, a zebra begging to change its stripes?
Change or exchange? I recall bartering with all passersby. The plodding water buffalo didn’t stop—they were thirsty. The tiger has stripes but laughed as I asked what size he wears. The vultures on overwatch glared…patiently. They can wait me out.
But only if I quit.
If I capitulate.
And black invades white.
And white engulfs black.
Colorless, absent, my vision will foreshadow.
What may be beyond sleep.
And I wake, tangled in a pastel light.