Apocalyptic World.

Tarmac slowly tortured,
Plumes of smoke and ash,
Graffiti's even fading,
Rain stings: lash by lash.

Grey and black and dull brown,
Silence, heavy, sits,
Claustrophobic buildings crowd,
Where any building fits.

From in between the mist and fug,
A figure rises, grey,
You cannot tell the weather here,
Nor whether night or day.

She moves with deadly quiet,
A master of this place,
And not until she's closer,
Do you see her face.

With eyes as red as stop-signs,
And hair as thick as rope,
She moves on through the fogginess,
In her elegant, sloping lope.

Apocalyptic one-off,
Survivor in the dark,
Eyes are narrowed warily,
As hungry as a shark.

A guttural cry from in her throat,
She launches, quick! At you,
There's nothing of the old world left-
This world is dully new.