By Keegan Flanagan

Even as the pale white cinders fall  
scattered through the wastelands by the winds of war  
a thin crematory veil of ashes 
is spread callously by some uncaring god. 
Even so,  
there is no finished world.  

Even as the mountains split apart,  
and from them creatures rise, newly stirred awake,  
beings beyond our comprehension stand 
seemingly starved by their centuries long rest,  
Even so,  
there is no finished world.  

 Even as children’s cries cut short,  
their panicked prayers met with a cold indifference  
as they become the food for our new guests,  
surely this cannot be the will of the Lord,  
Even so,  
there is no finished world  

 Even as we start to ask ourselves   
“Is this your retribution? Is this your price?”  
And more and more the bibles start to close  
as humanity braces for extinction,  
Even so,  
There is no finished world.