This poem is in response to a challenge to write a fictional poem about living in a fallout shelter. Intriguing idea, so here is my poem.
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Pale Shelter
The clocks have all stopped
The batteries are dead
So the slow drip of the distiller
Keeps the time inside my head.
The feet that made the hallways
Echo from before
Are withering with lye
Behind the cold storage door.
I've got UV lamps for vitamins
And root vegetables galore
But the best of all my mem'ries
Must stay locked by the storage door.
So I sip the drips of water
And rub my muscles sore
After pedaling for some 'lectricity
I stare mutely at the door.
All a person ever needed
As well as me, myself and I.
Averting eyes from the storage room
And thoughts of who'll douse me with lye.
I love the pedaling for electricity, but was shocked at the possibility of lye. Unexpected.
ReplyDeleteNice rhymes. Lye?
ReplyDeleteWhat a powerful poem
ReplyDeleteNow that’s a coincidence, we both started our poems with a drip! The lines I find most chilling are:
ReplyDelete‘The feet that made the hallways
Echo from before
Are withering with lye
Behind the cold storage door.’
The dystopian angle works well here ....
ReplyDeletethat final "cleansing" or I suppose washing away! Ultimate sterilization. Well written - mood set effectively!
ReplyDeleteme, myself and I... a company that you eventually will be tired of... this is only an existence, life on hold.
ReplyDeleteWell done! I like the rhymes.
ReplyDeleteWell done poem!
ReplyDelete