Piece by piece, the poem builds a picture of a world coming apart. Rain burns, woods burn, people melt, and ordinary things like music shops and wagon wheels are left useless or closed. Many of the images contradict themselves: black sunlight, white moonlight, hot springs that chill, dragons without eyes. Nature and normal logic seem to have flipped upside down.
The speaker never says "I feel afraid," but the flat, list-like delivery suggests a numb, watchful voice reporting disaster without panic. Short lines and tight rhymes give it a chant-like rhythm, almost like a nursery rhyme gone wrong. The mood is eerie, bleak and dreamlike. Humans vanish, one person is "chosen," and the grass simply keeps growing, as if the world carries on without us.
The closing line, "The cheek of angels," stands alone and isn't explained. Judging by the tone, it could be a sarcastic jab at those who should protect us but seem to watch this unfold, though the poem leaves that open.