There’s a hat in a house that hangs by the door
that no one wears any more.
There’s a crooked chair in a living room
that broke when sounded the crack of doom.
There’s a kettle on a stove and a pot nearby
that boiled tears the children cried,
and a roach in a bed of once-white down
and a hot wind where there was a town.
There’s a rift in the ground too deep to know
and that is where the dying go.
And the sky cries ash from eternal black
from which comes the fear of attack.
You’ll never see their faces, only their hands
blackened limbs that quiver, reaching out from the sand
and they’ll snatch you if you’re not looking
and drag you off regardless of screaming, kicking
and we’ll find pieces of your body
they leave out to mark the boundary.
And they who love the darkness
to them, it is their home.
They reach out in the blackness
they wail when alone.
And no one knows what started
or what ended so abrupt;
the wind is the dead that haunt us
and the ash from the ground that erupts.
And though we keep the light on
by burning the bodies of our friends
they sneak out from the shadows
and whisper “This is how the world ends.”