By Chloe Jones

Artwork by Sloane Adler

A lone siren wails
A fragile goodbye, floating on dead air
Mourning, perhaps
All those who have fallen.
Grieving for the grass
Turned slate, stone, and ash
It’s deafening, now,
With no other sound
Its cries pierce the sky just to shatter the clouds—
And yet. . .
No one is around to hear it.

The ground shivers
Frazzled structures stumble over each other
To its tenants inside
The third floor becomes the first
While the second floor dies.
The sky sighs with relief,
Golden beyond belief
As it watches Earth tremble like a dead falling leaf—
And yet. . .
No one is around to see it.


The flames leap high
Ember tongues laugh at the condemned
Thunderous; followed
By ear-ringing pain
The flood of flames rages through
Until nothing remains.
With agonizing heat
Which none can defeat
Melting cheeks burn like wax in a slow, slippery sheet—
And yet. . .
No one is around to feel it.

A clock strikes twelve
Face cracked upon the sheer edge of age
Timeless, alone
Yet joyously singing
Unaware of the silence
Its good cheer is bringing,
Oblivious, now,
To the pain that surrounds
Its chiming, once hopeful, is meaningless now—
And yet. . .
No one is around to grieve it.

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