my bladder fried

Apocalypse

Weeds are green. Indigenous plant life. Squirrels. Generations ago. They were the same. And the trees that were their home. Are gone. Birds flew in skies. That hovered just above. And it seemed good.

There is a stream. Underground. Buried. To build the homes. That it now floods. But I can’t dip my fingers. Into the cold rush. The lush woods. By a tree. Where for thousands of years. No man had stood.

And I sat. Hunched. A boy. Under the night sky. When the comet flew over. And not far behind. His bigger brother. My teeth chatter. In 2036. My hair lit up. And my eyes melted. Into my hands. And my bladder fried. As the universe did. What it would.