Sevenfold

In the wake of disaster,

there will always be a little girl

moving her lips softly, 

teaching herself how to read. 

The sky melting tar

and inky speechlessness, 

there will be a boy, 

leaning comfortably against

a richly filled bookshelf. 

When death seems to be the only nicety,

when a nod and goodbye becomes everyone's 

first hello,

when silence overtakes a civilization,

i find solace in scratchings on paper

rather than markings on knuckles.