in some outlandish dream
a portion of their souls
mushrooms up into the sky
billowing up with the blast from the bombs
the resounding boom
a multitude of goodbyes
thundering across a once
vibrant city scape
an otherworldly exodus
and you could imagine
the climate changing thereafter
killing off most living things
the world turning
some sickly tinge like an infection
the color of rust and water stain
mucus mixed with congealed blood
fall colors abounding
dead tones materialized
autumn glazed over every surface
it speaks: the end of flowers
the absence of god,
or maybe the ever presence of god;
but it doesn't matter.
because the world
perpetuates.
because the world
simply
is.
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