Poems&Prose

At the end of the world

At the end of the world, when the scattered people live, sparsely and quietly, what will you miss? A string of Christmas lights, trying by sheer force of will to illuminate them, while outside a boarded up window (glass is dear, so dear) ash falls like the snow of old. The grid is down, the lights are off, the Internet can not be resurrected. It seems like a memory of magic, to sit and talk to family across the globe, to look up recipes and how-to’s and television shows. It’s a great temptation, to turn on the generator and waste some of the precious fuel, just to see the familiar colors. The cheery yellows, reds and blues, reflected off of snowbanks, strung through the winter lilac bush. God, this just gets worse. Will there be snow, again? Lilacs? At the end of the world, we may long for nothing more than colors we will never see again.

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