New Dystopian Poem – Extinction

Extinction

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Crowning smoke

cloaks the heads of fallen kings.

And there I walk, on silent streets

over broken bridges

through the dark capillaries

of yesteryear’s fall.

With ashes, the towers weep

carpeting black the castle floors.

Their sacrificial fires, a century extinguished

but still they smoke

ever fuming

from glass eyes and stone-toothed mouths.

No one is here, save me.

Were they ever?

Ten grains of burning sand

on the fathomless shore of infinity

was the kingdom of man.

Three ticks of eternity’s clock

did we reign.

All that remains is me

straggling through grey fields

beneath crumbling battlements

crunching forgotten bones

under the last boots I will ever wear.

It was never my place

to ask why

or how.

Nor have I the desire, nor means

to dig answers from the dust

from the sunless sky

from the dwelling crypts of billions

whose laughter has gone.

No one is here, save me.

Were they ever?

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J Edward Neill

More words here

A Dark Poem – Leaving in the Rain

It began the moment I left.

The clouds, black and burgeoned with dark water,

caught me, contained me.

Drums in the sky pounded the only message

my body needed to know.

For all their thunder, my bones shook.

For all their streaming rivers

falling down my fractured panes,

I should have turned back.

Brief, I expected them,

and easily swatted aside.

But the sky told no mistruth,

and the serpentine road, swallowed by the rain,

scrawled into my tired eyes

the lie of leaving.

 A wager, I made with the advancing night.

‘You’ll break with the sun when I return.’

‘And go black again with every retreat.’

And impatient, I threatened.

And railed.

And made war against everything.

Even knowing the deed was mine.

But the rain only laughed.

And the night shrugged at the hidden moon.

Daring that I should do it again.

That I should return, and stride the storm

a thousand times over.


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For more words, go here

 

The Box – A Poe-esque Poem

Am I dead, I asked her?

In a box, I did molder,

rotting, shapeless, my nightly sleep.

Dead, but dreaming, of what waited

beyond my comfortable dirt, beyond

my opulent world of worms and disquiet.

But when they asked, wake me none I said

until the day my box is broken.

 

And then the first of dreams

drained through the holes where nails once lay.

I listened. I woke. And pushed away the cold dirt.

My insides, new, pumped with raw life,

and I recalled the days I’d never lived.

The moon, she burned my face. My eyes, she scalded

with such light my box never allowed.

Still hushed, she bade me walk beside her,

and her smile drank away my grave-dust.

 

For hours, we tread lightly

On the shadowed fields, unseen.

Of the world below, of worms, of coffins, she asked,

and for the moon, we floated high,

in the wind, the light, and nothing.

But to the silver jewel, we never did come,

for at last, she saw the dusk within,

and feared, with me, the sun

would not rise.

 

Quickly, we climbed back down.

The dirt waited, starved of me.

Where now will you go? the dream asked me in lament.

To sleep, I said. My home, it is,

in my tomb, dead but dreaming always.

Down, she lay me, shining no more, but gloaming

as I slid into bed, shivering.

Again, I’ll see you? she asked.

Long from now.

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J Edward Neill