Apocalypse Poem 1

Your sister thinks
the world is ending again
She will tell him on the phone
And her voice will crack
And we will both wonder
If it is age or the sighed acceptance
that comes with age,
or if, please god,
the lines are just too long
Stretched just too thin across the waters
And the air is just too thick
for our mother’s voice to carry,
because she doesn’t have the heart
to tell us that
the world is ending again,
that there are no more arks,
No more angels.
I’m sorry to be the one to tell you,
But our ship was never meant
to leave the harbor.
It just wasn’t built
To set sail and save us.
The world is ending again, and
This poem is not
a solitary rumination.
It is a terrible swan song,
Screeching through the last
Burning sunset
like a dying Pterodactyl.
This poem is
A miserable fish tearing its lips
Apart on the hook
Flapping for survival.
I write you now: get ready.
Because Kafka was wrong,
inspiration will not writhe
at your feet. Like life,
You have to hunt it.
You have to throw out line after line
And pray, Dear god,
Pray there are still
fish for us to kill
until we die.


--
(k)