the sky is on fire;

the rest is a series of grays.

wrought iron, rot of ages.

earth besot by metal, metal besot by rust.

an oxidized baptism.


clouds are made in factories now.
the silver lining is a carcinogen
toxic as the underside of peeling paint.

spring is devoid of sound.

persephone speaks in whispers
with a copper taste in her mouth
and lungs filled with blood and dust.
an old nosebleed has dried in rivulets down her face.

cross-legged and bony on a rusted y-beam
she counts down to doomsday
in dried flower petals.

a lone figure amidst a sea of flags of surrender
rendered in miniature
and shivering, flapping in the gale
she ties ribbons to the slender limbs of the condemned.

the falcon is long gone.
there is no-one home in the cobwebs.

at night, the smog blots out the stars.

she wraps her arms around her wasted frame
stands in opposition of progress
and waits for the sirens
and a new clear winter.

she remembers a time when there were still blank spaces on the maps.

but this is topside, and there is no undiscovered country.