Violet and orange lights slide across the wood floor,
My acute perception detecting nuclear catastrophe.
As wind and fire knock the skin and muscles from my bones,
Vision reverts in my finale to a more gentle motion relay:
Remember the Nineteen-Nineties? How slowly we moved?
It is this final moment in Eden, poisoned Eden,
Whereby off-white bones transform into blackest ash.
In my atomic apocalypse I do not curse nor bless the dead,
But take flight in the forceful gust to join the saints,
The sinners in their shelters below; soon, they will envy us.