ONLY AT THE APOCALYPSE
only at the apocalypse
do the poets run out of words
their hands tearing their papers
blood beading at their raw paper-cuts
only at the apocalypse
do the clowns cry
their painted faces twisted
and running down their chins
only at the apocalypse
do the clouds no longer rain
no thunder to split them open
cotton by cotton
only at the apocalypse
does the window refuse to open
shards of broken glass
shattered on the ground
only at the apocalypse do the elephants forget
the lovers hate
the corpses rise
and the laughter chokes
many have seen their apocalypse.
come, friend.
take my hand.
it's our turn next.
- by madison (gingerhead)
HEY GUYS I'M NEW AT THIS...TELL ME WHAT YOU THINK?
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