After The End  

After The End

Set me down in the ashes
After the end of things.
When the clocks have accepted their stillness.
With cool silences stretching unfettered overhead.

We could send our stories elsewhere,
Off where they keep warmer days
Or back along those dusty routes
To the histories stacked like sentinels.

Yet we find ourselves here again.
Under skies gone feral,
Surrounded totems of the world fallen away
While hopeful camp fires sputter on the horizon.

Words work differently in these ruined streets.
Ideas and observations can show their stitches
As they wander out, curious and uncertain
In the weird and fractured light of imagined apocalypses.

more by THOMAS W. EVANS

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