//the last// man by Joshua Heylin

// This oil sky

presses me between

failing lands,

falling clouds.

Encumbered, I trudge,

fields of stumps,

their broken heads nesting,

singing. //

gone are the days of us old gods.

// These sick times

press me between

flailing limbs,

filing carcasses.

Silent, I listen,

flocks of birds,

their trampled wings limping,

stammering. //

 their shattered limbs will build bridges,

// My machine arms

pull me towards

fleeing crowds,

fleeting wealth.

Sombre, I creak,

fields of corpses,

their open eyes pouring,

speaking. //

to a world defined by what has been lost.

an oil tear.

a threadbare sob.

a machine hug.

a whimper goodbye.

// Gone are the days of the old gods.

Gone are the days of Man. //