Fingers flex, and eyelash flickered. Someone’s wicked joke. Could hear
Him choking on his laughter as the limbs twitched in the smoke. But it
Was just a spasm jive, because the only sign of life was in the cruel
And icy light of atomic roses.
Metal petals of a dozen beacons, beaming in the dark — to mark the last
Resistance, the final protest (didn’t leave a spark). Even pilgrims kept
Their distance, vizors clamped, itching blisters. Shrank in lead suits
From the kiss of atomic roses.
And a figure cut the wire, padded barefoot through the field. Kneeled as
Klaxons barked in anger. Guards appeared at windowsills. Tore their hair
In disbelief as a young girl danced beneath, bouquet clutched between
Her teeth of atomic roses.
She laughed as thorns grew from her finger, pollen gathered in her hair.
And when she sang the bees responded, perfume lingered in her hair.
Sprinkled seeds, summoned thunder, drank the rain and watched in wonder
As around her sprang a hundred atomic roses.
And scented parcels rode on breezes. Dropped in deserts, dripped on
Lawns. Lost in cities, laced the rivers. Brought a new light to the
Dawn. With it, sickness flowed — crept insidious and slow, leaving just
The afterglow of atomic roses.