The Blast

After the blast

all of those so called cowards suddenly made sense

having stuffed pockets with rocks and became

a part of the unchanging sea,

when the walls started to cave in

we saw their thoughts reflected in

dirty water, heavy water

which set upon the streets like a blanket,

which would sweep across the toes of our

radiated bodies, radiating pain

beneath the plummeting acidic rain.

After the blast,

nothing can ever be the same.

Buildings turned to jenga blocks,

bodies were tossed like grains of sand

by the kicking feet of a child on a beach

for the first time,

all of us partaking in

this cycle of

dehumanisation

watching the Black clouds

bury the full moon,

a rampant man is scorned, by what?

They put your body beneath

lead,

what exactly was it that

you bled for?

We are transformed into fodder

by those who stole the power of Prometheus

and who impose dominance

upon us mere statistics,

eggs made into omelettes

or just cracked and discarded

all of our bodies simply flensed in the end,

collectively buried, collectively disposed of,

get that bloody litter

off of these crumbling streets,

now.