I walked through the ruins of a house today.
I climbed in through a broken window, and I had found a clandestine home.
There was a picture on the counter, but I found it crumbled with a touch:
It was clear there was a fire.
The embers of some fallen furniture colored the soles of my feet,
And I wiped them off with a brush as if to speak to their meaning.
Insignificant, to me.
It was clear, that there was a flame.
A passion, surely, for a nuclear commodity.
A long-forsaken relic of a time of some unearned energy.22Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡtH6oe35dpo
I thought for a moment, for they knew not what was to happen to me; what I made myself out to be.
But they would find a reason for my absence, and the truth will become stagnant and unseen.
It was clear, now, that there was a family.
A body of a child simmered in it, a heap of rusted metal.
A pile of ash shaped vaguely like a piece of humanity.
I kicked its heart, and it dispersed into the gale,
The same one that arrived here every time of year.
But it was insignificant, to me.
I’ve been living for long enough to recognize the patterns of this world, wherever they may be.
It was clear that this must have been an outlier, a freak.
For never before had such a structure named such an enemy,
The stone beneath my feet felt damp and icy,
Like some horrible enemy froze it from beneath.
A piece of wood broke beneath my weight, and my leg braced as it was torn by a memory,
A drop of blood shook my trance, and I stared at the dot on the gray of the ash-stricken reef.
The wound made it hard to leave.
I tore the walls down and made a door, and I decided to rest.
When I woke, it was that the wind had blown the ash from the house.
I wondered, then, the innocence that had predated even me.
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