27 August 2012
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.
Apocalyptic World. • Opuss № I