What If
day four hundred and twenty two we remain below the surface in the caves and catacombs of a life that should have been ours above us roam the foul creatures that hunt the living, eat the dead stalk the grand mansions of what once stood as the pinnacle of wealth weeds spring among the rows of grapes choking their growth, hiding the sun so the fruit is stunted and sparse we gather the little that’s there what if today were different— no fever dreams of green pastures but
