The sound of crimson rain descending from large, black clouds and landing with a vengeance on reinforced steel echoed solemnly throughout the night sky.

This post-demolition city was destroyed beyond recognition after the warhead hit.

Barren streets decorated with scattered rubble and the smell of decay saturated the night air. The radiation caused the rain to turn the color of blood; the blood of the millions of people that the projectile disintegrated.

Just North of the blast radius, a small, barely standing apartment complex stood ***** from the broken ground.

On the second floor of this hotel of hell, two teenagers, a boy and a girl, were quickly becoming men and women; their pleasure loud, but never heard.

Above them on the third floor, a woman hung **** from the ceiling. Her sickly body covered in boils from the radiation.

Two floors below, seven skeletons were spread equidistant from each other. The boy and girl had moved them surreptitiously after doing something with them that even I would not in right mind divulge.

The fourth floor was a horrible sight. A dying baby screaming helplessly; his mother and father lying dead beside him; they both shot themselves. The baby was born with six tiny, black eyes, and no legs to crawl. He’d take his last breath before the sun rose in the morning.

The boy finished his act, and took a large puff of a cigarette. The girl, completely satisfied and lying in blood, chose the needle. The boy followed.

It was their escape. A way to leave the pain of being orphaned by the war. Every single loved one and friend was slaughtered like cattle by the enemy. It was only them now.

This was their first night at the makeshift hotel, and they came willing to die. Together. They knew the radiation would overcome their sickly bodies.

There was nothing left to live for.
No place to call home.
Hölle auf Erden.
O night divine.

Dinner by candlelight
underneath the stairs, down
in the bomb shelter,
dancing to love, peace, and paranoia.
An evening called quiet
resentment, where there's
canned goods and children's games,
Duck & Cover,
or if you prefer,
Heimlich Maneuver.
Then little sleepy heads
go gently into their bunkered beds.
They might not outlive
the threat, but
the plan has a half-life of a chance.

In statistics
A population
Is a set of similar events
Which pertain
To a question

Life is not so random
The question is often when (?)
Once the box is open
Stem-and-leaf scatter

Snowflakes
Assume symmetry
Burn eyes, connections
Melt skin, memory

Pollution distribution
The outlier
Survives but one day more
The median is simply
Outnumbered

Variance is valueless
Unbecoming
To a populace
Up in smoke

Count your blessings
Night comes quickly
Hard rain
Kills softly

Supplicate heaven
The top of the box
Stays hermetically
Sealed
Forever

(And a day)

.
.
.
When you hear the whistle
of the terrible, dreaded missile
shooting far over our heads
and when the birds enter a silence
that not even the morning light can break.
Do you grab the graying hand
of a lover that you did not have
a chance to wed?
As the flames burn us all at once
and leave nothing
but ash in our place.
I whisper to the fierce, man-made winds
and hope my new, clear words
find you in our nuclear world
I will see you again
in the aftermath.
.
.
.