(I)

 

this time is morbid and dense and sickly

our veins pulse to the rhythm of the death waltz as we become ghosts of the hope 

we once held for a notion 

of future

tension and dirt have made themselves comfortable in the six-foot divide between

ourselves

and the people we love

we scour through millions of pixels in the never-ending pursuit of dopamine

while stacks of stability cover our ears with green and

the earth screams in wasted epiphany as we burn her from 

sea to soiled sea

 

what 

will be left of us? 

 

(II)

 

this time is divine and feminine and in flames

our spirits dance in the light of the moon as we vindicate the souls of those

who were eradicated before

their time

in the wake of the ashes and war and pain 

we grow flowers of vengeance over their names

we climb and we dig around the garden walls with intense pining to crumble the pedestal

power now trembles with fear at the sight of those it divided

becoming one with night 

 

when

will it be time for us?

 

(III)

 

this time is decisive and deadly and dire

our hands shake with uncertainty as we grasp for an inch of the air

that we tattered with ignorance in the plight of the past

hesitation becomes the death of us as we mock the reaper coming to fulfill a prophecy

composed by our own will

we beg and plead for another chance but the sphere that encircles us has come to elapse

all that we know and all that once was is but a figment of imagination

in the dreams of our last

 

who 

will come after us? 

​

- Shelby Brown