I've heard numerous tales of the apocalypse,
each one depicting scenes
of crowds embodying all that is violence
and blood marking the territory
of the beast known as hopelessness.
They'll send chills through your body
as they detail corpses with unsatisfiable cravings
and rows upon rows of windows
with only dust and vacancy behind.

But in all the accounts of the cacophony,
never will you hear about
how softly the door clicked behind him.

When the screams are chronicled,
never once do they mention
the ones ensnared by my pillow
or even the ones that festered and died
within my very throat.
Expositions of the end of the world
will always fail to broach the benumbing air
that invaded this house that day
and the absolute silence
save for the hitching of my breath.
And while these stories may include
the monstrous shudders of the earth itself,
the trembling of my hands will always be more prominent.