The fog rolled in. It spilled over the hills and the mounds of dirt and of bodies. Of crosses. Both of which decayed – in peace – beyond recognition.
All the churches were now ablaze.
In God, no one trusted anymore. As flesh boiled around the bones of the dead – the last of those to fall to their knees and pray – remnants that gave up all hope. From rubble formed the vacuous rotting maw of despair brought on by pestilence and plague.
As the mist crept among the flames of ruins, it mixed. It saturated the land in an orange glow and it cast wicked shadows of the withering dead and writhing dying.
From the burning hinterland flowed mile-long creeks of charred carcass. All the while, rivers of fire scorched the soil white and melted the pavement. Solar heat turned the streets and highways and rooftops into tar-pits. From under cars and between bloated bodies tried crawling legions of coughing contagion, clinging on to life like the fluid concrete they clawed at. From atop the roofs of skyscrapers wailed the pleading; putrid with desperation and shrill in their cries.
God, with his kick, toppled Babel. God, with his step, upended the earth. God, with his spray, enriched the planet with disease. God, with his talon, ripped the skies right open.
And it was almost beautiful.
With the world in shambles, the sky dazzled like utopia.
Today, I woke up – again – to the sound of the last dying man screaming his swansong in the distance – again.
He cried his decries of Heaven. He weeped his curses up toward the sky that dazzles like utopia.