DYSTOPIA 2022
- May 1
- 1 min read
By Scout Clancy Batreau
Well, I say, sprawled out on the chapel floor,
fragments of relics and rubble perforating ribs,
beaming up at Michael entombed in
blues, reds and gold,
the good news, the only news, is that Earth is dying. You were right,
his face remains nonchalant,
but there is a flicker in his flames.
My mother would sing here,
I point to a cracked organ sprouting greenery,
I’ve told him this before of course,
but stories are all we have now,
Alexandria has burned for a second time.
The radios are buzzing with the idea that judgement day
could be upon us, I say kicking sconce,
with unhidden irony on my tongue,
we both know God has no thoughts of coming back for us,
and there are stories from the desert
that the vultures have stopped circling,
they know it's only a matter of time.
Michael smiles quietly,
I can almost hear the defeat in his teeth
as he bites his glossed lip.
I come back the next day and slump on the altar,
gas mask slung over my shoulder,
Michael's flames have gone out and
his sword shattered,
we've played God too long.
I reach my brittle fingers out to the last nuclear rays
penetrating Michael's royal chest,
weaving each joint through the light,
do you think He'll leave a light on in the universe?