Grey blankets of fog drifted through the dimly lit streets.  The rain only a whisper, softly seeping into umbrellas and jackets.  I stand still, watching as masses of black and brown overcoats hustle from grey cars to dull brick buildings.  Flesh, red lips and blonde hair steal my gaze.  In a sea of black umbrellas, deployed as bomb shelters, hers is still wrapped in nylon, secured with Velcro.  Yet she holds it above her head as though it were open.  Pale hands caress the black handle, and tease the button that would surely shield her from my stare.  Stiff like a gargoyle I begin to wade through the damp and dreary to witness this anomaly more clearly.  From across the street she notices me, her attention stolen by flesh, bright eyes and wet hair.  She crosses the street, smiles and hands me the umbrella.  Without once removing my eyes from hers, or hers from mine she tears the Velcro and presses the button.  As quickly as the umbrella flew open with an awful and startling pop, I disappeared into the sea of black nylon shields.

When we were dancing on the moon,
prancing through the market,
and advancing up the mountain,
the rack was white, bright
and empty.

When we would walk to school,
undock and sail the seas,
and rock the midnight scenes,
the rack was clean, unseen
and empty.

Now I stare, loving
and loathing the rack.
Now there are shoes.
*****- worn out white.

They lie there, cold and still-
empty shells, their spirit missing.
No dancing or prancing,
no walking or rocking.

Just rotting, still
and alone.

The stars hid behind clouds that night
and the cacophony of the bustling city was silenced—
drowned out by a symphony of frogs and crickets.
The summer breeze blowing off the lake was musty
but refreshing.

As my brother and I walked farther from city light
he asked the same question again, “But why?”
I’d ramble, “Because I can feel it, and see it.”
“How so? Why don’t I? I don’t understand.”
he’d reply.

It was the same walk, and the same question.
But tonight was different— I was frustrated.
God’s symphony sunk into silence, and His curious
creature grew louder.  He asked one last time,
“Why do you?”

“Because Mom and Dad do!” I blurted out.
An abrupt yet fleeting silence struck.  My feet were
crunching on the dirt path again, and the frogs
and crickets returned, louder.  I walked,
mind swamped.

I was scared to think, but yet I did.
l listened and looked around with awe.
The stars came out, and the wind blew the leaves
in the trees and the tall blades of grass with hush,
and I knew.

All of a sudden consciousness was a billion stars—
a full yellow moon setting over houses’ silhouettes.
I smiled.  “So this… all this, really did just
happen on its own?” I whispered to my brother.
He smiled.

I spread my arms and lifted my eyes to heaven,
floating in the cool breeze.  The stars, wind and
frogs singing to me as my mind danced. I asked,
“Do Mom and Dad know why, does anyone know why,
they believe in god?”

My children will ask questions, “Why’d they stay behind?” I’ll tell them they liked the desert and had always hated white Christmas'. They’ll laugh. I’ll smile but stop after I think about the baking streets and buildings—the emptiness.  Every day for the last 200 years the news’ doomsday clock counted down.  Eleven billion people ignored it.

Burned inside their homes
knowing life had lost meaning.
Trapped forever.

Three quarters of the world watched instead of digging, building, saving, living just a little bit longer.  We had time, help and everything we needed to build The Underground.  But they said there was no point hiding from the horsemen. Life went on like cinema in fast motion— there was love still fighting behind the madness and dawning doom.

No flowers for you.
A feather to remind us
how birds used to sing.

She had striking wit and long blonde hair that made most people jealous—everyone cut their hair short because of the heat.  Today, it was announced that at our latitude, sunrise tomorrow, the surface will be too hot for human life. We held hands as we waited in line to enter The Underground and watched the sunset. I kissed her forehead.

That was the last time
It was only beautiful,
and stars would be seen.

As the last ray of sunshine touched her locks of golden blonde hair there was no sobbing, no weeping for we knew Earth was finished.  It was lost before the Sun gave up, to billions of bright galaxies glimmering so far from home.  Hope had hid somewhere in the vast void between our worlds, frozen and dying with every scientific discovery.

My children still laugh
and my wife will smile
just a while longer

after Edgar Allen Poe:

Feeling nothing but the arrow, as it’s biting at my marrow,
He smiles some sickly smile, and rides even harder than before.
I cry, clinching my teeth, trying to bury the pain beneath,
Trying to shake my disbelief, disbelief he found me on the moor.
He could not know! But still we rode together through the moor,
His burning arrow buried at my core.

Terror tickles my spine, as I feel my horrid horse resign,
The dark rider close behind, gladly grinning; anticipating gore.
Ears ringing with steel let loose, a sword my hangman’s noose.
Dismounting, I pray to Zeus, “Zeus, god of lightning’s roar!
Let loose your bolt!” I pray to hear that thunderous roar!
My request the gods do not ignore.

Bolts of searing heat strike the swift mount’s feet.
I watch him fall, drawing steel I wait for wicked war.
Quickly to his fearsome feet,  Darkness comes to make blades meet.
My heart begins to beat, beat with fear my faint face wore:
Death I cannot cheat, Death, whose face a smile wore.
Vengeance, his swift stride bore.

My blade met earth, along with honor’s worth.
Eyes still fixed on my fearsome foe, I turn and soar.
Laughing at my turning, lungs and feet now burning,
Stomach sick and churning, churning with his roar.
Him laughing at my yearning, and fear that fuels his roar,
I pray, “Gods save me, I implore!”

Laughter no longer sounding, just my heartbeat pounding,
I turn my head to see the smile, to view which I abhor;
No black eyes beaming, no sick smile grimly gleaming.
Just my mind now screaming, screaming for rapport.
Panic in my soul now teeming, sweat seeps from every pore,
I shake while standing, alone upon the moor.

Had I just been dreaming? Tears of joy now streaming,
I laugh and choke, these fields no one dare explore!
I look around relieved, but instantly aggrieved.
My horse is gone and I bereaved, lying on the moor…
An arrow I’d received.  Now another’s breathing I can’t ignore.
I look up, then nothing more.

Although
alliteration
alleviates
all
affects
attributed to
anticipation,
it will still spill
faster from the quill
than assonance.

Hallway light is out,
lost, leaving frigid darkness,
key can’t find the lock.