poem

the smoke surrounds a little bird

a world of infinite colors and words

machines are dilated, so are my eyes

the creation clogs up the skies

the sun sets, what's on her mind?

what does she tell the moon when they meet at night?

centuries of aching destruction, our home has become nothing,

but, still;

the sun ponders with rage,

and, our home remains ablaze.

the sun, in spite

unhinges her jaw, and devours us raw.

swallowed whole, we burn alive,

either way, we would have died.