The screams of children I’ll never have encircle me,
while a thrumming beat of urgency takes hold,
gatekeepers put in place a millennia ago watching over.
Rules forced upon the people written in tranquil blues,
as the silver dollar you gave me long ago falls down the drain,
quickly carried away by a blind mouse born in secrecy.
Our faces constantly glued to screens,
bright white lights. Always.
Tearing you away from your flesh,
the unknown boy dies in unimaginable anguish.
How. Can. You. Feel.
We. Go. Down. Slow.
He was raptured yesterday,
bodies disappearing on a plane,
the island built to recover us far more beautiful than we deserved,
lost letters written in a language none of us could comprehend.
All of the answers on how to survive
So you and I, the two lone survivors,
let our ears pop and then bleed,
creating a new kind of music as we mutually decided to forge on.
Not writing a speech for the future civilization we would build,
instead letting our lives do the talking,
escaping the mediocrity on accident,
surviving, refusing to die.
We. Went. On.
–without water/without news.