Here lies a sick world.
Waiting for a plain grave.
I have a few snapshots,
of how it used to be.
The days we spent
holding and kissing
each other, before the battles.
But love was not timeless.
The feast was not your
body, but the formless
lumps of death
scattered across the city.
Your breathing in of
the blast, the final sky.
The softness of your lips,
the last kiss.
A Wandering Poet 