a writer of sorts
Like any other day, the sun rose not caring that the earth would steal its light, holding onto it like like a frenzied mother smothering her child. Not caring that the streets - garlanded with the corpses - shimmered at its touch but coaxing discarded, tanned flesh to spoil; staving off the ennui by feeding the future soil. Unmoved by mannequins, frozen in unnatural gesture, screaming their silence to no one. Indifferent to surrendered galleries that decay, aided by unchecked ultraviolet. The sum of human endeavour in dust as the last man, tears boiling on his cheek whispers from his once cool cistern, to gasping rats, ragged and fading, ‘All we had left was our history’.
Picture Credit: © Steve Duncan / Barcroft Media