That Apocalypse

Imagine this:

You're surrounded by rusty bars, spaced evenly apart.

Just barely enough room to fit your head through- if only it were smaller.

A light shines down,

unnatural

harsh

and cold.

So bright that if

you were to look up,

you'd be forced to squint in the glare.

If you close your eyes and cover your ears

you could sit down quietly, maybe think you were alone.

Then again,

there would still be the smell.

That rotting, spoiled-meaty stench

amplified when what's left of their skin breaks

as they stretch their gnarled arms through the bars,

reaching out for you

The heat of their acrid groans hitting your face,

ruffling your hair.

The breath of the redundant, deceased, and dead.