Zero

Ground zero.
Silence at the mushroom root
blasted earth
twisted wastage
quiet.

Mile-high cloud curl
blushing in the sun,
dust curls lungs,
grits palms,
weed and stone 
energised but dead, let fall the
last man at home
staring Armageddon down
fading to pattern
on the wall.

The loud devourer
grins, stretches his long arm,
blows all down
and as the wind breathes in,
swallows,
exhales ruin,
quietness is
the only living thing,
silence of the wind's rush
through dry grass
sighing for the dead
the dying.

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