I stepped through and all the world was black, distorted jeering voices and all the charred green smoked, stank. The clouds dull, dead things that unmoving hung over the spoil like a vulture joy waiting patiently to fill. I was ill, killed, all the self split away sharded and I cried, cried, cried, rejected from the place I saw, to find in my real hands and skin I clutched dead things and in Eden found only nothing light and nothing living.next poem