Proof

Is the old world gone again

Or dead again

Weathered from self

Or talking lies to each other

weather and agendas and

walking surface streets

near but not together

Is the old world mourned

or underground

or do we hold what remains

of barefoot days

bare headed in wind and rain

and raw, bleeding laughter

After sunset, after days,

I wanted a lover in secret and dark

and whispers of alliance in ears

Too young,  too small

To hear the storm

Talking, talking,

but never whispers

Ferocious gale storms

Battering windows that shake

and moan and creak and threaten

to give all- to give way-

Hungry, angry, the tempest grows

Screams devoured silently in its center,

But whispers…

Ah… whispers echo all.

Then the morning,

Sunlight breaking as a fever-

branches strewn like fallen garland

homeless leaves flit and wail

seeking, searching,

never found again

but by death, decay and rot.

The acute pleasure of fear

Eclipsed by the organic waste left behind,

Proof of storms and fury and sin

Proof of mankind

written in waste.