literature

The Unfortunate Case of a Sole Surivivor

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Literature Text

'I'm not to blame', thought him, as he wandered through ruins,
For he still had his life, as though life- he once knew it.

All around, the stonework creaks,
Twisted, black, burned and bleak,
The crying of stone, burned so weak
Is enough to raise his chin.

Around, he glares, through hollow smoke,
Which clouds and blots and lives to choke
All who aren't aware that good has left the earth.

Nothing spotted, but yet, so lividly,
The loner turns, begins to flee
From beneath the home,
For well he knows he's not alone.

Chase and pursuit rear from his mind,
From a place with a friend from a different time
Where guard was not kept and lives fell behind-
Well, our hero now knows what it means to align
With the forces of dark, his life for his,
And to fear what you can't see, evil crouching in wait.

Light breaks overhead and sheds some relief
Upon the scorched world before him, though he feels no grief,
'I did not do this, I act just to be:
I want and I breathe, I live and I see
A world full of pain, void of a god,
Am I to waste time with such trifles as woe?'

This man, he turns, to stride through the fog,
Back to his safety, obscured all along
From those that would seek to cause him harm.

Upon returning, his scavenge complete,
He paces and ponders and quits to his seat
To gauge the odds of surviving here-
To fight the fires, to finish the year
Out with a hallowed, unbroken stroke,
To show the world he's not broke
Himself, not possessed or off-kilter,
He'll continue to be a living soot sifter:
To pour through the ash and bones and decay
To find what he needs for breath the next day.

Occupying skeletons and rattling cages;
This life is unwanted, this life this way:
Each day a struggle, each day alone,
Beneath the world, beneath the stone,
Forced inside and pressured to the point of breaking, but never quite traversing the breach.

For now, rest escapes, as sounds far above:
Explosions and whistles and death from above,
Cause springing to feet, cause grabbing and donning, cause him to explode
Out into the night, prepared for the war that has come to end all wars.

Alone, he staggers, active, at the ready,
Back to the wall, holds his gun steady
Forward at the clouds, awaiting the fall of some forbidden off-worlder,
But on the surface is he: of souls it's a hoarder.

One of the longer poems I've written, though still not long comparatively to some other poems out there. Hopefully you enjoy
© 2014 - 2024 Zonnes
Comments2
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newbluud's avatar
Roses are red
Violets are blue
This poem is shit
Kill yourself


Actually, it's pretty decent. I felt something in my groin while reading it.