Darkness. A texture of soot and char.
The world has worn through. Exit - zero.
The smell is sweet. The walls will settle
Into the throat, the memory, the brick silt.
Father swallows the silence: "It will pass..."
Mother fades on the syllable "No..."
A child's "Ma-" stuck in the cracks,
Where flesh turns into clay.
The ceiling wrings out the last moisture.
The panel's maw. Black exhaustion.
Time is gone. The pulse in the temple -
Living pulp in a stone palm.
Empty casings count the minutes.
Dust became language. Voice - iron.
The sky is a slab pressed low.
No one will dig us out. Death is too close.
One.
Two.
Th...
...
...