Poetry
NUMBERED
They never saw him coming.
One night, street lined with towers,
A valley in the urban world,
A pillar of cloud, upwards from the Pits.
Condensing, shifting, winding upwards,
Until it forms the man.
A road paved only for him,
Desolate streets, night-black.
Footsteps: One. Two. One. Two …
Echo like the screams he left behind.
Like smoke he dresses himself from the air,
Fashions garments, black,
Suit and gloves and scarf and hat.
The monuments of man dwarf him
As he walks between them,
Uninhabited now, desolate.
The world is a wasteland, fallen.
Around a corner, through an alley,
Across the junction, where there are no cars,
No people, only him. One. Two …
His breath burns the air,
Coming out black and then rising.
Atmosphere shimmering where it touches skin,
Scolding the winds; they blow around him.
One. Two. One. Two. One. Two …
The buildings shake and collapse;
The roads buckle and turn to dust;
The pavements writhe like snakes as he passes.
The streetlights are red.
He listens out for nothing, and that’s what he gets.
A mouth smiles crisply, and a dark eye winks.
No, they never saw him coming.