by Nick Gisburne
The end for some, a quarter, never came.
A wave of missiles shattered in a storm.
The genocide, a sick, sadistic game,
Was thwarted by a blizzard’s feral form.
What thanks are we to offer up for that?
Contamination stains the toxic earth.
Our streets are silent, power levels flat.
We freeze. We starve. Our babies die at birth.
The exodus of privilege and shame
Surrendered each and all of us to fate,
But we, the few, remember every name,
Engraved upon the burning bones of hate.
New stories, not yet written on the page,
Will flower from the embers of our rage.
