Such Fine Weather for an Airstrike

For what we have consumed
abused
and left to waste,
only Death from above can redeem us all.
And redeem us all It will
soon.

   Rarely would you be awakened from the most beautiful sleep by a weird dream. But for that day’s morning: you did. And it was a dream that as soon as you were awakened by its weirdness, by the bizarre images from your past flashing by as quick as the train of thought, you immediately forgot what it was. You were only mildly surprised and casually disturbed. Then, as you pried your eyelids open to seek an outlet of escape, your horror slowly crystallized these are your regrets and past mistakes -- only to be dissolved away by the clarity of reality that surrounded you.

   The ceiling, how white it was, even in the pitch darkness of the night.

   As is the nature of the plaything of sleep, you were not able to recall even the slightest of details; were you floating down from the comfort of Mother’s breasts and through the pillows of soft, white clouds of her kisses; were you drowning from the showers of spit coming from Father’s throat, as he forced you to march through life at the beat of his chest; were you falling off from the ledge that once supported the dreams that coursed through your youthful veins. Little by little, the dream turned out to be the sort of burlesque show that you could barely keep yourself awake to know its ending.

   Not knowing suddenly became such a comforting point.

   As you looked up to see the position of the Sun across the dimly lit sky, you began to feel the heavy burden of day resting its weight against your tender, young chest, gently pushing you back and down into a familiar repose. Life, as you saw it that morning, fell sharply onto a hard, jagged rock, and broke into many pieces of routines and subroutines, scattered haphazardly throughout the arid wasteland that was formerly your soul. None of these pieces spoke a word to you. All were but listless fragments of past ambitions, refusing to die. Their grimacing faces, defiant to what was Fate, stared back at you in the most dissatisfied horror what have you done?

   Out onto the window, you saw the most beautiful grey sky, like a blank canvas for a summer painting, waiting. And at the sweet smell of the crisp morning breeze rushing through the bedroom, refreshing, you said, in a whisper broken by a sigh:

   "Such fine weather for an airstrike."