Friday, 8 June 2012


They reclaimed the land, as
we always knew they would.
The revolution came slowly,
but by degrees, they engulfed
us, so slowly that we barely
noticed the decline. Till the
concrete was subsumed and
the roads faded, as scars do,
cracked and broken by the
push of weeds. Leaves
unfurled in protest, flags of
warning, green against the
darkening skies. No longer
satisfied with subjugation,
the plants rebelled. Gentle tendrils
prized us apart, and we crumbled.
Slowly, so slowly, those malevolent
vines sought to strangle us. And
we were dismantled. Now each
street lamp is smothered in
Jurassic ferns. With lights
extinguished, those redundant
bulbs gaze out like blinded eyes.
And inch by inch, those tangled
stems will come for me. So I lay,
my face pressed against the damp,
dark earth, the scent of summer on
my tongue. They have numbered
all my bones. So I wait. And I
remember when all of this was

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