Write your stories neatly and bind them in place,
Set them safely atop a bookcase.
Mine span the decrepit bottom shelf, waiting to be read,
Crying out for help; secluded in my head.

I watched the moon tonight,
It shone bright with a burning halo around it.
The whole sky looked like a backdrop on a stage, a black piece of paper with white dots drawn on.
Then world in front of me rotated slowly like it was on a turn table.
Beneath that halo I felt small,
Just an ant beneath a magnifying glass being looked upon.
It scared me…because it looked like it could fall at any moment.

I look around at the truly decimated world, beyond a mysterious veil of benightedness.
The trees are cadaveric with shriveled appendages hanging on by simple stitching.
A heavy mist stretches over the streets of vacant homes like webs of great spiders.
Then the sky…

The sky remains grey like the eye of a winter’s storm,
Calm.
Ashes from the wings of burnt angels list slowly to the ground like snow.
Then the angels fall with a sudden fleshy thump of an ending.

Their screams as they fall are the only sound resonating besides the wind in my ear,
Whispering.
“You killed them.”
“Do you hear them screaming?”

“Are you deaf?”

I swear,
I hear them but can do nothing.
Burning innocence is simply – the nature of man.
Who am I to douse these flames?