Poem Hunter
VB ( / England)


The supernovas fiery gaze,
Setting the darkest night ablaze,
Through temper, steady shine,
The holiness, so divine.

Turmoil, destruction everywhere,
Into the chaos I calmly stare,
Staring into the blackened earth,
For what is all this really worth?

The debris and rust frozen dead,
The building roasted to strength of lead,
The people dead, in their dreams,
But this was reality, not what it seems.

For if this was a dream, all would be good,
The woodcutters cutting the strongest wood,
Burning ablaze for to keep winters warm,
Sleeping in peace in one cosy dorm.

Staring at winters snow and so gloom,
Not wondering at eternal doom,
That a supernova could one day bring,
Meaning that life would never sing.

For swarms of fire, swept the land,
The aftershock of gales came in a band,
Sweeping life firm off the feet,
Supernova claiming defeat.

For into the destruction, I now boldly cry,
Wondering when, how and why,
Why this terror, why so slow,
The painfulness I’ll never know.

How they died, in courage or weak,
Why I survived, this deadly freak,
The supernovas centre now sparking flames,
Hot as the sun, the dead people claims.

Twirling in circles, a river of death,
The crimson world of fiery wreath,
I wonder a poem, when it writes such tales,
Of terror and chaos and when the world fails…

When only one ever survives,
Making many carnivorous dives,
To rescue the dead, resting in craze,
Fish them out, of a dead maze.

The supernova still one of anger,
Sets out another banger,
However this annoys the earth’s core,
Of deadly strength in galore.

The supernova only to stop,
Clear remains and die to go flop,
In the end nobody won,
Nobody held the golden gun.

Only debris, chaos and bad,
Left in one story so sad,
But one thing I never understand,
Is why my face is so bland?

Confused, but I never know why,
And all I can do is shrug and deny,
Stories told by my fellow dead friends,
Of how I survived, the twisted bends.

And yes that is it, the answer confused,
Of why I survived, never abused,
By that horror that once stuck these lands,
Buried my friends in flaring sands.

Scattered chaos and debris and all,
Why I survived this crazy fall,
Where was I when this occurred?
My memory is jogged and blurred.

Never came back, no one to speak,
The lonely life never to leak,
For all that were dead, spoke in my dreams,
I still remember, as it seems.

Me and my friends having so much fun,
Till supernova, hotter that sun,
Scorches all, guns ablaze,
Wiping out humans, all to erase.

Where am I now, at the ends of the earth?
Still staring at the blackened worth,
Wondering, all this, that I’ve said,
The poem wrote this, all you’ve read,
For this supernova, was witnessed by one,
Poem, all were dead, not for fun.

For humanity was already dead, before scorch,
For heat fries humans, a human torch,
The poem though, just like me,
Where lonely from scorch and so very free.

This is not the answer though,
For why I survived, never to show,
That I was dying, even in pain,
The poem wrote this account, so insane.

I wonder a poem, when it writes such tales,
Of terror and chaos and when the world fails,
And when supernovas strike in the mist,
Only to add to the growing dead list…

I still never know why I survived…
But for all others they quietly died,
In the misty fiery lands,
Of the supernovas hands…

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