in the aftermath
of an oppenheimer
pale horse people
kicking up the dust
of ashen cityscapes
winding the hands
on the clock
until the springs
are all sprung
the gears
as toothless
as any hope
for salvation
the ticking
of canary hearts
against the ivory cage
of ribbed excess
but the oily residue
of liquid bowel
no sensation
or elation
no relation
lost in trans-mercurial
surface elacstation
for the bright light
to bath us
in ineptitude
as we succumb
to the atom split
in the flash bang
of electron drift
left to sift through
the piles
of what was once

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