Cataclysm Baby

Zachary, Zahir, Zedekiah

And then the last crib combusting. And then the wallpaper smoking and the carpets melting. And then the hallways coursing fire room to room, the master bedroom, the master bath. And then the whole house engulfed. And then the timbers splintering, shattering, crashing against the foundations. And then the chimney crumbling. And then the roof-tar slopping across the yard. And then the yard catching. And then the fence, the long-dry grass beyond. And then this great conflagration burning bright, hungry for wood and plain and village. And then all these recently emerged landscapes, ruined first with failure and now with flame. And then the cities blazing. And then the skyscrapers swaying unsteady upon their supports. And then the bridges tipping into their rivers, the overpasses falling onto overpasses. And then whole cities buckling into the dirt. And then the collapse of everything between making sudden highways to nowhere. And then the satellites all falling voiceless and empty from the sky. And then the rain. And then the hail. And then the sleet. And then this pyre taking unmarked decades to smolder out.

And then ashes to ashes. And then maggots in the ash.

And then for a time no more centuries, no more millennia.

And then for a time no more time.

And then only ages: The age of bones. The age of worms. The age of flies. The age of locusts. The age of devouring. The age of dust. The age of sand. The age of flooding. The age of earthquakes and eruptions. The age of erosion and landslides. The age of mud. The age of clouds. The age of oceans swelling. The age of waterspouts and tornados. The age of snow and ice. The age of glaciers. The age of avalanches. The age of melting. The age of new stone, new clay, new soil.

And then at last, at last, the age of seeds.

And then. And then. And then.

And then every morning, some new and constant sun, born upon the horizon.