We are the voiceless reapers descending—
watch as our tails smoke and flame and roar.
Sirens blare but the flashes aren’t lights.
The rumble coming to steal you is not a dragon—
we do not have scales or wings but we breathe fire
and we long to burrow deep into the ground
We are the sinking ground that jumps—
the subtle lurch before the world erupts into blood
and broken homes and promises
you knew they would not keep.
Smoke is thick and choking like a fist.
But what’s it matter when the air is ripped from your lungs
by missiles of broken building and broken you?
You are blooming and bent—
the flower and insect flayed and pinned to the board
to be stared at. Studied—