The sky split
like an old wound—
bleeding rust into the morning,
the sun a swollen blister
peeling over charred hills.

Crows forgot how to scream.
Smoke stitched the air
with ghost-thread,
and time slumped forward,
dragging its feet through bone dust.

We learned silence
was not peace,
but a lull before the rot—
cities swallowed whole
like old regrets,
steel ribs poking from earth
like the remains of some god
we failed to worship right.

Rain came
black and sour,
tasting of copper and grief.
The trees bent
as if praying,
but no one listened.

Even the stars
flickered out
like breath on glass.

Hope was a flickering radio,
a child humming to static,
a name whispered
to a grave that never answered.

We were the last psalm
sung into a ruined cathedral,
echoes crumbling
on their way out.

And still—
beneath the ash,
something small and stubborn
twitches.

Not life.
Not yet.
But maybe.