by Aevin Mayman
The world is ending.
The sun slides across the sky,
a smudge like a sick child wiping their hand across the blue behind it as it goes.
The ground pulls, now.
The grass is a wet carpet of quicksand
that yawns wide like a starved child
reaching for food.
A moss covers everything, a sickly green thing
like a tired bar sign, promising only despair and endings and decay.
The world is ending.
When the sun rises it is a fight, like a mangled bird pulling itself away from the road,
the trail of its heartbeats a smear in its wake.
The forests scream, now.
and they echo around the buildings still standing,
a tidal force of primal fear slamming against the crumbling bricks.
The world is ending— but so am I.
I can feel myself dragging along with the sun,
leaving behind a bloody, tired trail like leaves ground against pavement —
I can feel the suffering of the Earth,
of that tired sun,
of that yawning ground,
and I spread my arms — the doors of a funeral parlor — and say
“come here, don’t worry, I’ve got you.”
Post Script Magazine. 