Winter in the City (Year One)

All is returned to dust.
Every breath is taken back by a jealous
god of blinding finality.
A god of human ingenuity.

Yet the husks of the already dead
begin to emerge from cellars and wells.
Their skin drips like parafin, cracking and cooling.
All around, the dead are crawling
on the glasslike surfaces of their cities.

In the days that follow, each husk ceases
the spasms of their nerves.
They starve while their hair molts
in ash-caked lumps, their hair
is indistinguished from their skin.

There are no more lovers. Those
unlucky enough to live in the already-wastes
will face a winter of always-overcast skies.
Their useless television sets will spill
with deep static, until they tire from seeking.

After a year, the dust will remain.