Poem-A-Day: Day 264

Could Have Been Worse

It was the apocalypse…

like sharing a hat with a stranger
or having to use an outhouse.

The rain came in waves of fire;
bodies everywhere
looking like hunks of old coal
pushed to the edges of the grill.

There were no horsemen,
no pale horses,
only the sound of sorrow on the air,
blood screaming to the skies,
and innocence betrayed
by the sense of humanity
and its ability to reason with itself
towards destruction.

The sobbing is silent
under the cacophony of death
that drains down the sewers;
scarlet and placid…

like some twisted vigil for murderers
or the theft of a tip jar.

It could have been worse.