'Twas not the fall
that killed
or the brawl
that spilled
the blood
that crawled from wounds.

'Twas not the silence
that spoke
of death
that broke
the soul
that cried in hollow dreams.

One thing is certain.
Words sprang to life
teeming like the bodies of a virus
throttling leviathans,
making them wet, and sad and dumbfounded.
These words were alive, a glorious fire
and then,
like a flood of apocalyptic magnitude
oblivion swept the words away.

The leviathans walked on,
no longer spurned to celebration,
they turned on one another,
throttling, breaking and spilling one another
across empty pages,
that God did pick up
and mumble divine profanity,
thereby he did close the book
and think of man and his pacifying words
no more.