We climbed the ladder of technology, took on the mantle of civilisation and declared ourselves masters of the planet. Then fought to stand the tallest. A laughable game struck by sin, ending in fright, pushing our own self-destructive button. Villages disappeared in a flash and blinking lights of emergency vehicles were dazzled over glossed eyes.
A mushroom burnt above the horizon, the sky blazed with the radiance of a thousand suns. Millions of lives fragmented into ash and shadow. The blanket of smoke climbed up into our atmosphere to cover our planet, in billowing pillows of black clouds and ash.
This winter was once just a theory, a concept, a myth. Yet the frost and breeze have a murderous touch. Terror depends on people being scared, and shock depends on surprise. As we stood in huddles, ‘terrified' hovered on every child's tongue.
We are called the ‘soft targets’, as the others are hard to hit. They ignited their huge uncontrollable fires, and the sky became so alight. Then we softly laid on the rubble, waiting for the sky to break.
The air is black and clouds could drift for weeks before dropping back, or being washed out of the sky-space. This extreme cold bites the flesh, blisters the radiation and widespread destruction. Hunger struck stomachs and sandpaper throats, bloated frames floated in rivers poisoned by the rain. Fallen bodies and left overs laired like feathers between the broken economy.
A nuclear nightmare smothered latitude and longitude, washed up by blackened veil, and dried by suffocating and subfreezing.
There they stand terminally, gazing, longing and waiting for settling dust.
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