Approximation,
The 405 swathed in flames,
The trees and buildings
Aureoled with Hell.
There were accounts of children rescued
From the vast crypts underground
The Hollywood Hills,
But it was hard to see,
From the visuals,
How that could be, how anything can
Withstand the fury of traditional perdition.
But now there is no trace, not one
Smoke-scarred tree or
Shadow on the marble,
As if it never happened,
Gaia's easy profusion
A sort of revenge.
But nothing is certifiable as real anymore,
Not even symbol-rich infernos
Or reports from those one knows
Of apocalypse's found
And narrowly averted.
It happened on another timeline,
Where the old myths were destroyed
And the things that would disable our will
Were lifted away
Like liens off a baby
And we were left with the impression
Of innocence
We had before it began:
No alien/human hybrids,
Porcine DNA, adrenochrome,
Baby torture, clones,
Just mediocre art from a nasty plutocrat
In a wheelchair
Bequeathed
To make us slaves go "hm"
In voyeuristic disgust.
