Would?

In my

Blown out

Cinderblock

Apocalypse 

flower garden. 

Quietly exploding,

Tended by

careful entropy.

Thirty-five years,

Cultivating

The scorched 

Remnants of

This world. 

All assembled

With irradiated promises. 

Uneven boxes, 

Fertilized 

by the

Mutilated hands

Of your youth.

Enriched by

Virgin blood 

and the MAD ashes

of a foreseeable culling.

Those responsible…

Praying 

for another heaven 

and

forgiveness…

Rewarded with

Dying

Conveniently.

Gracefully.

Early.

Knowing…

What remains

They leave.

The

Fortunate

Dirt-tenders

Abandoning their

Orchards 

and 

Minefields.

Justifying

cultivated 

bounty

as divine

approval

to escape. 

Leaving

a blueprint 

for survival

Tattooed

On their children.

Mispelled.

No traducido.

Wrong. 

 

And ignored

during their fifth

“rapture”.

…

A gift—

Or betrayal—

Seeded

In our

desire

To follow 

their footsteps—

Unable to reap

The approval

We are taught

To hungrily seek.

A lifetime 

To germinate

Questions. 

Growing.

Did they

Ever

Ask…

Well.

Did you?

If 

you 

knew 

And

could

Stop—

Would?