Apocalyptic poems, posted every m-f.

the tower

an old man, war scars decorating his shoulder
crouches over antennae and speakerbox and wiring
he calls it the messenger,
this makeshift radio

he’s convinced there are others out there
like him, searching

he works on his messenger, up in his tower –
not because these radios are essential
or because he has some bigger plan
but because when the apocalypse happened,
that was the first thing he thought of
and the last

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