On wind over harvest fields laid to waste

final ramblings of cloudbursts and rushing floods

scratched on a tattered page

blood as ink and intoxicant

and nothing to follow, cast into abyss

carried by a final breath as far as night rolls on

until dissolution claims last rites over dust and shadow

Lifelines to the sky are severed

The bell tolls for the faithful, the lost, the mist shrouded

and the ones who bathe in starlight

It never stops tolling

until only monuments of sand remain

and smoke of the final match extinguished

hangs in the still air over tranquility

—

nothing to follow

—

Photo by Matt Artz on Unsplash