Somewhere In The Middle Of The Beginning Of The Beginning Of The End

I am glad that eye in the sky is crushed behind a veil
The bank of clouds walling off its bone-colored iris
And for a trifle of a moment I forget its very name and
the falseness of its very hope
Even if I still see the flashlight bloom pouring out
like electric phosphorescence
I know it can never again behold the meaning of our
Before the wrath of a righteous God and the stern
lecture of the nuclear education
Of course we scrounge to fill our bellies with
something other than nostalgia
Because memories only leave you hungrier than ever
When the clouds remove the darkness of their blush with
gusts of leftover radiation wind
I recall we named this light the Moon; a thing fawned
over when fawning was a luxury
My god, what a sight to fathom
Then I move on, to survive, trying not to remember when
the world wasn’t broken

About the Author:
Tyrel Kessinger lives, works and writes in Louisville, Kentucky, where he lives with his wife, two dogs, cat and all the other trappings of a mostly normal life. He is the 2011 recipient of the Literary LEO Award for Short Fiction and has been published in myriad literary publications, most recently Prick of the Spindle, Grey Sparrow Journal and Jackson Hole Review. Tyrel is also a Contributing Editor for Black Heart Magazine.