Solace.

Solace.

The children of the apocalypse are hipsters sleeping in burnt out cars, a duvet of metal beneath a blackened tree with spider leg branches, scowl in the wind that blows it's molten leaves. The parents of their time are unashamed because they brought them here with excuses and time lapses.
The sky rots with the sun and the rocks boil as the perfume of burnt soil sticks to the skin. My brother is a corpse with lungs filled with cement, he's a mannequin of ash and dust while my sister has a face painted with rust.
There are children hung up by their necks, swaying like a zombie disco. Nothing more than mere blunt wind chimes.

The horizon gapes like a scar ripping open.

A barren eternity whisps through my hair as a dirge while I gaze upon the mountains shaped like corpses, I wander barefoot over broken glass and warped fingernails. Shards of history remain half buried and half burned. Such death spoke that day long ago, it's still speaking now, silently whispering, deviously moving. The trees, like a forest of scapes.

My polluted skin is carved with disease, or it maybe old age.

Such screams I bled dry from this throat, for them only to be caught by empty eye sockets that creep with darkness. I could feel nothing within this heart, apart from the fly eggs and maggots, all caged within ribs of diesel. Being alive I felt like a pariah but merely because everything else was dead. Until I found what I thought couldn't be found, a flower of such purity standing strongly amongst the eradication, be it sentient or not I was enamoured by it. So in absolute awe and hunger I impaled my fingers into the earthly flesh of our Mother to create a henge of digits, terminal members to grasp that last pound of fruitful dirt, to swallow whole.

There are no ghosts here, I haunt this place.