some call it redemption

if time must come to an end

yet be an infinity larger than others,

let the voiceless dialogues flood the streets.

have them wash over everything unsaid,

everything forgotten, remembered seconds too late. secrets too comfortable in graves of sand,

seeping into the soil, which tastes of death.

on the streets, outside houses of concrete, a torrent of rage,

a maelstrom of grief,

crashes into millions, drowning out their voices.

then there’s the drip of guilt,

echoing around an empty valley,

ebbing towards the vortex of sorrow,

that swallows the sunlight that once extinguished rainy days.

let there be a queue for nothing.

no more waiting for something that will never come— some call it redemption,

some, the end of everything.

the clocks are all melting. we’ve come too close.

the fires have started

to eat up our soles.