Extinction (a prose poem)

Extinction is the only way. It happens slowly. I am walking in the winter streets; everyone is a stranger. Even the people I know. We can’t know who people really are. Maybe this is a side effect of grief. There are considerable and small losses, but they accumulate over a lifetime.

The great redeemer is never coming down from the sky because the sky has turned dark red like festering blood. Revelations is a myth; the afterlife is a dark room filled with rats. The world after this will be worse. Nothingness, maybe. Or, each world is a descent, like an elevator that goes deeper into the earth’s surface. So, when you see me in the darkroom, please let me be. We deserve to suffer, and your words are no comfort.

Extinction, a man wears a mask of horror, removes it, only to reveal an uglier face. His eyeballs protrude from his burnt flesh. His teeth are brown. His tongue is not like a human’s but more like a reptile’s. This is your father.

This could also be God.

He reeks of garbage and cheap wine. He drags you. You scream, but it’s no use.

The world is a darkroom. There are rats everywhere. Don’t look surprised.

This is what we deserve.

(Photo by Kvnga on Unsplash)

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