Listlessly lost in the trappings of my own mind,
feeling blind to the work around me
as everything burns to the ground.
The sound of their screams never heard,
no one listened,
and the blood glistened in the alleyways
as it flowed for days.
The rot creeping through,
the stench overpowering.
When will it end?
If I wasn’t dead inside,
I’d hide away—
a bunker deep in the ground
where I can’t hear a sound.
The bombs could burst,
the world could be cursed,
and I’d be in my own bubble,
buried under the rubble.
It’s strange
to long for the end of days.
About the Creator
Ivy Rose
Ivy writes about the strange, beautiful, messy sides of life—aging, career twists, alt fashion, spirituality, intuition & mental health—through articles, journal entries, poetry & short stories. A little darkness and a little light.
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