Gut-Shot

Revelations

We didn’t know it would come to this.

The explosions so loud I can’t seem to hear a thing.

Your guts in my hands. I cry out, wounded like you.

But you can’t see it. You can’t see past your own injury.

Cliches come to my mouth.

I try to comfort. I try to soothe.

Frantic as the blood comes out from the fresh wound.

Words don’t help, but I use them anyway,

“Maybe we still be friends.”

The waves of fire roll into the beach,

Turning the sand to glass before it shatters.

The buildings fill with smoke,

As effigies of our identities go from smoke to cinder then ash.

Street signs wane and bend as the metal melts.

Familiar avenues forever tarnished –

Ensuring there is no way back.

The sky tears open with a falling rain.

Desolation, desperation meeting together in matrimony.

A hand on my hand. A prayer, a new prayer from my lips.

“Not mine, but thine.”

In the middle of the wreckage, a sprout emerges. Eden reborn.