Terminal

Terminal landscape of necrotized cities
Grey spectral sidewalks ending in splinters
Streets paved with gravestones
Roving children reared upon barbed wire dreams
Their hollow teeth filed down
And stilettos in their boots

A malignant sky like an open wound
Bruised with an exhausted moon
Skyclad women
Wanton and feral
Spilling syphilitic nightmares
Within vacant doorways
High priests of unconstituted religions
Spelled out in cuneiform shorthand
Myopic prophets foretelling wars already lost
Prognosticating futures already passed

Dead end highways congested with traffic
Neon lights leading nowhere
Muted streetlights casting shadows
And always the unrelenting silence of inevitability

This is how it is.
This is how it ends.