what remains walks.

he walks through the end of the world,
where the roads are cracked and swallowed by roots,
where buildings lean like drunk men ready to fall,
where silence hangs heavy, thick like a warning.

the wind howls through dead streets,
rattling old signs, kicking up dust.
somewhere, glass shatters.
somewhere, something moves.
could be the wind. could be worse.

his boots crush the past,
broken screens, shell casings,
a burned-up doll missing half its face.
people used to own this stuff.
people used to live here.
now, all of it’s just debris.

his rifle hangs off his shoulder,
cold and familiar.
a knife sits on his hip,
its edge stained with old prayers.
nothing is safe out here.
nothing stays standing for long.

he finds a mirror in the wreck of some house,
the glass cracked but still enough to show his face.
or what’s left of it.
hollow eyes, dirt-streaked skin,
a face too sharp, too hungry.
not really a man anymore.
something else.
something made for this place.

the old world is still here in bits and pieces,
whispering from the ruins.
but he doesn’t answer.
he just keeps walking.
that’s all there is now.

above him, the sky stays red,
watching, waiting.
the gods are gone.
no one’s coming to save anything.