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About Poetry Other Exits Back to Artemisu! ______________________________________________ Wet, ragged, torn. She clung to shreds of burnt cloth for unoffered protection, and continued along the reddened stream. She stopped to watch a small child, halfway buried in mud, crying out for its mother. It struggled and whined, and after several minutes it gave up and succumbed to its fate. The woman paused, saddened and wearied, but had no time to mourn. The mother of the child was farther along, skin split and boiled, no longer worried for survival and oblivious to her child‘s needs. Off in the distance, a group of individuals called out against the orange-ish black darkness, avoiding parts where twisted metal seared the ground and blocked their path. Some, in search of homes. Some, in search of warmth. Some, in search of families. All, in search of life. Meanwhile, happy clowns danced and sang silly songs in the background as a man balled up his aluminum foil wrapping and threw his super deal cup in the trash. The time to return to work had come. Plastic lined the streets and human intestines, and no one thought otherwise. The man stopped to watch a small child, halfway in tears, crying out for a new toy in the window. It struggled and whined, and after several minutes it gave up and succumbed to its fate, a pout on its lips. The mother of the child was farther along, talking on a cell phone and oblivious to her child’s asinine desires. The man paused, saddened and wearied, and thought that if it were his child, he’d get it the toy. The woman sat down on a bent rail, unable to continue. She saw no one she knew --both good and bad, since her main audience were the mangled bodies miles around her. She had no sons or daughters, but had a husband and a distant uncle in the area. They were long gone. Blackness fell as night came on. But still the orange-ish glow never wavered. As she slipped into the dark mud puddles below, she wondered if things would ever be the same again. Myself.
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