Apocalypse

Whispering on the wind comes a voice paper-thin,
spectral eyes haunt my daytime dreams,
skeletal, sinewy fingers choke my screams,
as I struggle to escape from Hell’s rim.

The land is sere, blackened, utterly devastated,
daily we drift closed to the sun,
What’s it matter now who lost or won?
Our beautiful world, cruelly eviscerated.

Try as I might I cannot find my voice,
I didn’t speak out when I could,
Didn’t work for the common good,
being selfishly silent, I made my choice.

Smoke and lingering pain rise from acrid ashes,
a pyre for this arrogant root-race,
civilization obliterated, without trace,
black snow falls on my nose and eyelashes.

The chill wind lifts the veil too late,
unshed tears give sulphuric burn,
sightless I watch the world turn,
a lonely planet I helped to create.

Evicted from the verdant garden,
A nomad in a nowhere land,
I search in vain for God’s hand,
in blood-red clouds, his pardon.

Verily, I reap what I have sown,
where have all the flowers gone?
too late to ever learn, dear one,
vain to groan, if only I had known.

My paper-thin voice, a whisper in the void,
spectral eyes haunt my daytime dreams,
skeletal, sinewy fingers choke my screams,
my complacent calm, completely destroyed.

Apocalypse

Rosepoet

Balgal, Australia

  • Artist
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Artist's Description

Occasionally I do despair.

Artwork Comments

  • Leon A.  Walker
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