Wednesday, April 4, 2012

30 Poems in 30 Days - #4 Ain't No Phoenix

Been so long since...ain't nobody recalls what did it.
Ain't nobody recalls the blue sky we sing about
Seen pictures, sure...don't mean a thing.
How you gonna explain sunshine to a man ain't never seen it? Or warmth to a man ain't never felt it?
Better luck explainin' colour to the blind
We live this land...beneath that grey blanket, snowin' ash and rainin' acid...and that lightnin' don't ever stop comin'.
We ain't explorers. Just scavenge what we can, an' take it back to the fortress. But time goes by, an' we find ourselves movin' out farther and farther, into more treacherous territories.
The fortress is a great structure, filled with level after level of history. "Library" stamped on the front. We got people assigned to readin' what books ain't been burned or eaten by mold. See if we can't learn who did this to us.

Got a funny feelin' we're not gonna like the answer, we find it.

Had a wife, once.

Threw herself off the fortress roof when Doc told us she was with child. Said she weren't gonna be held responsible for bringin' a life into this Hellish place. Told her suicide weren't right. She said murder was worse, and she jumped.

Funny thing is...I can't tell if I disagree with her choice or not.

When the world ain't sustaining. When the knowledge is slipping away day after day. When we lose another few lives every time a group'a bandits come lookin' for trouble, well then...the hell's the point?

We call the elderly "Teachers". They make sure to pass down skills like readin' and writin', so's we don't lose it all. But I'm beginning to question the purpose in trying. Life, and living it, have become futile.

Thousands of years of history...I don't even know where I live on the maps. All's we got is "Fortress".
Can't even see the god damned moon they say we once walked upon.

Another day. A few bullets less. A longer hike. A smaller amount of food brought back.

Ain't no phoenix risin' from these ashes. just the slowly closing hand around the collective throats of a once proud race.

Teacher taught me a poem the other day. Death be not proud. Fella thought he'd be immortal by writin' these poems.

Death ain't proud, son. Death is patient. And when he comes for us all, ain't gonna be nobody around t'see your damn immortality.

No matter how long it takes. Ash is how it ends.

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