This Is Not

The wreckage vomits

Blacker clouds into the smog.

The wind still spins

The motors, now gigantic

Metal pinwheels.

Prying wounded

From the instant grave,

They haven't started

Numbering the dead.

But this is not the end.

The empty evening

Smothered every clock

Until the seconds

Stopped entirely.

She didn't leave.

She's always leaving.

You only see her for a flash

And sketched in every

Overstretched elastic night.

You'll likely never

Hear a word again,

But this is not the end.

- 6/19/25