She’s calmer now. The winter Sun is setting.
The edges of her voice have dulled
her eyes are still swift, snowy blue
blossomed into summer skies.
She is august now. Slow,
heavy as the air. Mellow,
the Moon easing in her hammock.
Disaster, grief, despair, old age. The 21st Century’s Apocalypse. Beauty is a natural consequence of this war, the aesthetic fallout from the nuclear havoc of age. But it isn’t just age, no. Beauty’s tragedy lies in the whole of the natural world. The leaves and blooming flowers, the expanse of cyan beside crystalline sand. Age withers all. This is our Apocalypse.