The sky is rust, the ground is ash,
The wind cuts through in a quiet lash.
The trees are bones, their fingers bare,
Grasping the silence that poisons the air.
Flames don’t roar, they whisper low,
Crawling slow like they’re in no rush to go.
Smoke writes verses in a choked-up spell—
No need to scream; it just looks like hell.
No demons dance, no devils grin,
Just empty shadows stretched too thin.
A playground cracked, swings torn apart,
Laughter fossilized in a melted heart.
No blood, no thunder, no final bell—
Nothing dramatic, it just looks like hell.
As if the world gave up mid-sigh,
Forgot to burn, forgot to cry.
And maybe that’s the cruelest trick:
It’s not the heat that makes you sick,
But the stillness, dull and dead as a shell—
No story to tell.
It just looks like hell.
Thank-you for reading.
Remember there are many paths back to God.
Follow your own path,
Brenda Marie
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This is hauntingly powerful Brenda !!You’ve masterfully captured a specific kind of dread—not the dramatic, but the utterly hollow and desolate. The imagery of “laughter fossilized in a melted heart” and the world giving up “mid-sigh” is devastating in its quiet precision. A profound and chilling piece.