I read that it was like a lightning flash
And it got very quiet
Like that time I went sky-diving
And there was nothing in the air
But me
And then there were the birds
But this time no birds I guess
They may have been already blistered
Or scared away previously
Like before a storm
And the lightning came but it was brighter
And then people and the place disintegrated
Or were papered to the ground
Surrounding ash and burn
Skeleton keys of bodies
Poison rain
And nothingness
Maybe the birds returned later
With the sound
To hear what remained
Which wasn’t people
Which wasn’t buildings
Just quiet yellow melted world
Sharp acrid emptiness
After atoms mixed together
Burst apart
After mushroom
Flew heavenward
After the storm
Blew Life away
In an instant
In a flash
In Japan
A thousand paper cranes later
Longing for longevity
Peace disarming Life that still remains
What would the speaking souls say
Would it change the way we act today
Or are we still the same
The birds stay silent
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Kathy Gibbons was born and raised in Philadelphia, later landing in Houston for her second iteration. Her poems, photos, and micro-essays can be found in: Barren Magazine, The Ekphrastic Review, Anti-Heroin Chic, Tuck Magazine, Poets Reading the News, Creative Nonfiction’s “Tiny Truths,” and elsewhere.
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