Adam Donaldson Powell

After The Rapture

Spent, sweaty and out-of-breath
We lay back and
Light a single cigarette
To be shared in symbolic
Celebration after an intergalactic
Battle between brazen faith and
Foolish adventure.
My tattered wings clumsily
Tucked in between my back
And the thin Styrofoam mattress;
Your head buried in my chest
And your matted hair still wet from
Our midnight dip in the Styx.
Who would have guessed that
The heaven of our making
Would be like this? .. so
Characterized by the mundane,
With intermittent interruptions
Of surrealistic struggles for
Survival: win or lose .. all
Or nothing .. one day at a time.
As the moon eclipses the last
Sight I see before I drift off
Is the withered bonsai in the
Opening of our pre-war dwelling.
A reminder of a time when
We still dared to sleep soundly;
Carefully wrapped in unencumbered
Dreams in the style of our ancestors.