Author’s note: Another piece from my university days. I have always loved the idea of an apocalypse.I know, that sounds soooo Goth but from an artistic point of view, the end of days creates a sort of blank slate that on which anything can happen. Also, I know this “poem” doesn’t rhyme but deal with it. I suck at poetry. It’s supposed to be about the imagery.
Oh, sweet dystopia, blessed bleakness, fetid death.
Dead roses bloom in the gardens of our fathers.
I am alone and I stand on the precipice of the world.
To the west lies scarred landscape, a testament to the present,
Broken steel towers like shark teeth.
It is an abattoir, where the shadows hunger.
In the east, the ground writhes with the ghosts of noxious fumes.
Dark clouds boom above and watch with disinterest.
They scathe the Earth with their stinging tears.
Far to the south, where the soil veritably sizzles
Is a burning sky, like a curtain of fire,
Where in a tower of bone and screams,
Sits on a gilded throne, the hooded beast, the end of man’s dreams
In the cold forlorn north, I hear booming drums to the north.
Howling, cruel winds blow pitilessly,
Stinging ice blankets the horizon,
Into this frozen waste I go,
The hooded monster’s gaze on my back.