His face was smiling, fingers in idle snap.
Joy in the moment, crinkled eyes critical
of the text in hand, flipping through that Bible.
Paper that silently cut without any pain,
as blood dripped unbandaged without any fix.
Splotches spread unchecked as the room fell to collapse.
In silent reply, fresh legs ran, fleeing this collapse,
escaping the room as the walls broke with a snap.
Into the alley he stumbled, triumphant! What a fix,
he thought, foolish mind unable to be critical
when burning rain fell. Suffering, real pain
now, crimson fingers clutching at the Bible.
But what respite is the cold, cold Bible-
with words distant, text too thin to stay collapse?
There, between broken walls and dying life, pain
blossomed unquenchable as hope gave with a snap.
Heaven ignored him as the acid rain cut, striking critical
on the skin of the huddled scrambling for any fix.
Haunting days as they killed for shields of flesh, hoping to fix,
to alleviate their suffering. In the struggle, his Bible
was lost. When heaven’s barrage ended, he wasn’t critical.
Wasn’t triumphant. He had survived the collapse
at the highest cost. He could still remember the snap!
of their broken neck, two figures fighting the pain.
But they had been fighting each other-causing pain.
New wanderer, he watched survivors get a fix
from scavenged pills, mental fall with a steady snap
of the mind. How many? How many had a Bible
before? How long until he would be driven to collapse?
In relative safety, it was these of which he was critical.
Not food nor water, but when critical
Mass would be reached. And from this fear of pain,
a terrible, glorious desire to prevent collapse
He wrote in blood, words crafted to fix.
Baptized by trauma, this crimson manual, this new Bible.
It would save us, he was sure, a salvation from the snap.
Years passed since the collapse as he spread his fix.
He was the first doubter, critical as any from the pain.
Yet through it came the new Bible, for the day when fingers would once again snap.