July was cold this year, and we sat around the fire.
Ashes were the snows that fell from the slate sky.
We told stories to pass the time, her and I, like before.
It was the end, and no one would every remember them.
The fire transfixed, it gives warmth and it takes the world.
Me and her stayed close to it, only ash and death outside.
Canned food, we’d be down to cat food tins soon enough.
In our stories mortal men tricked eternal life from the gods.
July, and her and I were planning to head on Devil’s Highway,
where the aliens were high and sky, and cut a line on your cheek.
Aliens would have been a comfort, even as enemies, as all passes on.
In out stories we stormed the gates of Valhalla, eternal heroes.