Fallout.

The nuclear winter
has set in
on the Fort.

Contaminated,
toxic snow,
falls heavy
with a purpose.
I am now beginning
to grasp
all that has been taken from me,
in the time it takes
familiar lips
to coldly say,
"I am not in love with you anymore."

The blast
and cloud
has passed.
The white heat
and earth reverberation
has subsided.
There is the crater full of memories
and words,
and the scorched circle of earth
that surrounds,
to remind me
of all that was lost.

So we move away
from what was once the center.
And we convince ourselves
distance
from the impact
will keep us safe.
We mistakenly believe
moving out and away
from the circle of devastation
will let us move on.

Then there is the uneasy and false calm.
A period of reclamation
and reflection.
You venture back outside
and check the wind.
You look to the sky
and wonder if it really is over?
You begin the rebuild.

And then
the nuclear winter comes.

The long term fallout
and after effects,
of the simple obliteration,
rain down from a grey
and muddled heaven,
that no longer seems to care
whether you have survived the worst
or not.

A fresh blanket of snow falls
while thunder cracks and whips;
and nerves of lightning
climb from the icy waters
back up into the sky.
Memories pile deep
along side the new roads home.
Promises and words
flood streams
and wash out bridges.
Home
is what you have lost.
Shelter
is all you seek.
And even this isn't enough
to bring peace.

You were warned
that this was coming.
You were warned
that this would take time.
You gathered supplies
and ammunition.
You thought
you were prepared.
And you thought
the worst was over.
You thought that distance
from the impact
would keep you safe.

But there is no refuge
from the grey blanket
that now envelopes your world.
You are still
the center of the blast,
and a storm
with the half-life
of weapons grade plutonium
is bearing down.

And now,
you are wishing
that you had been
vaporized
with the initial white heat and chaos;
erased with the words
that seared the heart
and splintered the soul.

But you are not so lucky.

The nuclear winter has set in;
and it's cruelty is unforgiving.
Skin is peeled back from brittle bone.
Loose teeth are pried from jaws,
and fashioned into crude pick axes
whose purpose
is to crack open the thick skull;
so that you might dig your hands
down deep into the viscera of your brain,
and find where all this memory and ache is stored.
If you are skilled enough to find it,
and remove it
without causing further damage;
you will wrap this memory and ache
in a blanket of rough cotton.

Behind the shed,
out back by the waters edge,
with bare raw hands,
you will scrape back the snow
from this undeserved nuclear winter,
smash through the frozen surface
and bury
all that was,
in the soft dusty loam
beneath.