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Several days later, the smog still lies over the city.
The cars are motionless; the houses empty except for the dead bodies of the once vibrant human beings.
The street signals still blink in a continuous stream of green, yellow, and red; beckoning for some one, something to show themselves.
The scratchy rustling of the dry, brown leaves intimates death.
The Bulidings for miles around stand weakly but silent. Cars, buses, and trucks no longer crowd the highways.
Trains no longer snake across the countryside. Jets no longer paint the sky with their white streams.
All is still.
All is silent.

i hope you like my poem, it is for my book ( which i hope will become published ). The book will be called The End. It will be about a boy ( the age has not yet been desided ) whom servives a bomb which hits New York City, New York. If you want to know alittle bit more about my book, plz give me a message here on gaia!