Twelve years have passed, a cabin’s quiet breath,
each evening steeped in Prufrock’s weary song...
The streets, like arguments, unraveled, thread by thread,
and now, the final hour—ten minutes long...
The day began as days are wont to do:
targets, calls, the hum of endless grind...
But whispers grew, a shadowed, creeping hue,
a text, a call, the turning of the mind...
And then the hall, the gathering, the fall—
a bloodbath wrought in silence, cold and stark...
The clock ticks on, indifferent to it all,
as evening fades to night, and light to dark...
Oh, hard rain, fall—
not just on rooftops, but on souls that bleed...
Wash clean the wounds, the echoes of the call,
and let the seeds of what remains take heed...
For in the ashes, life will stir anew,
though now it seems the world is cloaked in grey...
The evening falls, but morning’s light breaks through—
a hard rain falls, but it will not stay...
