This is the aftermath, isn’t it?

This is the aftermath, isn’t it?
Unclean, half-written, ripped through
as tornadoes ravish the landscape,
leaving unspeakable damage in their wakes.
This is the aftermath, isn’t it?
No true words can be spoken, no right causes taken up,
no sword left sheathed, no gun left uncocked.
It is meant for infamy, forsaking all that is good.
This is the aftermath, isn’t it?
Ours has become broken into yours and mine,
the virtuous circle burned and left to smolder,
no “us” only you and I seated apart on a bench of vainglory
once seeing deeply into each other and, today, looking past,
being the man in the mirror who forgets his face
and, you, the harlot, to cloth my naked grief with something.
This is the aftermath, isn’t it?