As betrayers we will walk,
Forever through the nevermore.
Landscapes of the post-apocalypse will be our comfort.
An icy tundra of unimaginable scale.
Stunted wanderers of the perma-frost.
Could others be passing in the fog?
Be a fool and hope.
We will wake to bear our weight,
Across empty desert.
Stumble across rock,
And sand and root and thorn.
Ever dryer, always hotter,
Each step slower.
Burn from ridge top to valley floor.
Places where the crows have fallen to the heat.
Final nests of sand, bones, feathers and beaks.
Still we will walk.
Cities still and empty before our eyes.
Not full to bursting,
Twitching with colour and promise.
No, Grey and empty.
Windows broken, streets cracked; silent; menacing.
We pass through hallways, passages and doors.
Pass as echoes and whispers.
Markers and memories, postcards and papers.
Though we tire,
We press on.
No landscape of any comfort have we found.
No trusted companion, no ruthless enemy, no lover, no ghost.
Footsteps through shadows,
The mind-scapes of purgatory.
And though we tire,
We do not yet deserve to stop.