Poetry

The Last Day The sun will come up in a thick dark sky. The silhouette building shapes silently stare. The hand of a thing will shudder and die like so many unfinished jobs everywhere. A cold oily ocean will flop on the shore as feathers float earthward, as bones lean and fall. A sound will appear like a deep deep drum. Air pure and incredibly still. Then everything fades to an infinite grey, on the last day.

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