Poem what I wrote.

Poems what I wrote, late one night, when all was pleak before the dawn.

Desolation

The shadows fall across the empty table, where hands no longer squabble for bread.
A man is still, as if asleep, arms cradling his head.
The wind blows defiantly, picking up what ruins remain in its path,
though this is just the finale of the Great Aftermath.
Bodies lie where they fell on the ground, carrion for the beasts that remain.
Rot starts to settle, slowly as things begin to decay.
Shades scuttle round corners, fleeing the light and what it may bring, the only sound to be heard
other then the ominous creak of a childs swing.
No footsteps to work, no men in suits and a tie.
No women to wait at the door to see them off, no long goodbye.
Those days have long departed, led in the night.
The suits lie discarded, solely a reminder of the days of the light.
And whilst the city dies brick by brick,
the inhabitants stay, and devolve with it.


Retribution

The Light casts its' eye upon the table, once more heaped with food.
The man awakens, well rested and feeling good.
Wind has died down, no longer a threat,
but carries the bodies and the past along with it.
Shades emerge from the edges and slither away,
the swing no longer creaks but groans as children play.
The men go off to work, but the women do too,
there is no time to stand and wave, there is work to do.
For whilst the city is rebuilt piece by piece,
work is never finished, never able to cease.
Lessons learnt.
Whats done is done.
Life must continue,
The world still moves on.