CURTAINS UPON THE GREAT DYING
"I miss when there were flames," I said to no one in particular,
"I miss when leaping fires gorged upon my home,
curling around it in a wicked, gleeful wrath.
I remember the thrill of running through crumbling ceilings and burning walls.
Now, the ashen ruins simply lay in silent mourning".
"I miss when there was war," I said to no one in particular,
"when artillery and gunfire sang like great dramatists,
in the harrowing theatres of muddy trenches and bursting houses,
dying people make a great audience.
Dead ones, not so much".
"I miss when we panicked as the world burned," I said to no one in particular,
"all the great romanticisation of love and revolution and the great green,
all the fury against the tyrants,
the fear as the sizzling air began smothering us.
There is now an uneasy peace among the ruins and the graves".
I look to the sky,
knowing the stars gaze upon us,
all of us.
But no one in particular.
