The end of the world
Doesn’t happen with a thousand screams.
Or the howling of sirens, a harrowing melody.
Or the the crepuscular stillness of the air.
Or the scent of cleansing alcohol, heady and viscous and bitter.
Or the roar of passing vehicles.
Or feeling of burning limbs.
Or the flames kissing a face, tender, esurient.
Or the crashing and scratching of concrete debris.
Or the smoke that licks the blood-red sky.
Or even the stench of a curious scarlet ichor, that tastes of brine and iron-
It ends with a gasp
A small sound
A meek sound
A fairy-light exhale of breath.
The fluttering of an eyelash as it relaxes,
As the pretty claret-coloured ash is blown gently away
Up-
Up-
Up into the air, like grains of sand falling onto a beach
Like drops of angel’s blood drifting homebound
Lost to the brilliant red of the sky.
And then...
Then nothing.
Nothing.
Nothing
but
an
awful
silence.