Terminus by Madison Stone

there is nothing profound in the quiet that follows.

no bird-song or ivy overtaking

that shell of a city, and

no foxes dozing

in the rib cage of a house

and when Prometheus is gone to ash

in the soft and tender throat

of some divine carrion

leaking crimson tar on the side of the road

the eagle with the bent neck

will not rouse

no soft rains will fall, and

the soot will not descend like flecks

of snow, tumbling

to rest on the tip of your tongue

trees will not burst from cracks

in those vestigial streets like

forgotten limbs,

reaching towards the overpass

this place is not a place of honor

there is no art in this suffering