Apocalyptic poems, posted every m-f.

young man dying

he sits there scratching at the scabs
tracing lines of fresh blood across his sick green skin

looks up with hollow eyes
whispers words that i cannot hear
but i still know what they are,
i still know.

prior to this scene, i will contract the green
and survive it, and recover
i will be the first and only one to recover

others will demand my secret, as their children lay dying by the river
or the quarry

i will try to explain that i have no cure, that my salvation
happened without rhyme or reason
that there were no dark arts or crushed herbs
and for this they will hate me

they will ask what god i prayed to
but i don’t pray:
for this they will hate me worse

this young man dying green
will spend his last moment pulling a trigger;
i will spend my last moment
feeling cheated, wanting him to know
that none of this was my fault

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