The End

bomb

The End

Hat crammed onto my head I walk
the streets. Nowhere to go now we have failed
ourselves for the last time. Elbowing through dirty
crowds of lost souls, I trip over a warm groaning body.
Sweating and feeling not unlike a corpse myself
I contemplate the glaring truth; we are all
beyond help. Finally, I spy the
park! Amazingly it’s
quiet here most
seek the
churches.
On my
bench
I sit
alone.
I can
see
the
end
from here
as I watch the mushroom cloud blossom.
© Rebecca Sanchez 2015
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13 thoughts on “The End

  1. Very cool! I love this poem and I see the mushroom cloud. I also see a martini glass and it feels a bit like a toast to me. It does what poetry should do, stir us up inside. There could be different interpretations to your words, to me anyway. I really enjoyed it.

    Liked by 2 people

  2. I love how you structured the poem. It perfectly mirrors a mushroom cloud. I love how the poem is about the end and yet, the “i” in the poem is really a survivor because to see the mushroom cloud is to be far enough away to survive the initial blast. So the end is really the beginning. 😉 Very clever!

    Liked by 1 person

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