On “My Own Apocalypse” – A Poem

If silk could melt

to drip down arms and goosebumped legs

in scarlet rivers, serpentine,

it seems only right

that the sky should burn as well.

Like roses heaped upon a stage,

cloaked in tumultuous applause,

the end will fall in exultation.

Shall we stand upon the shore

and taste the salt upon our lips,

basking in the last breezes

before the Breaking?

These last days are a ball,

a promenade of bliss,

sublime devastation,

a eulogy of memory.

Shiva, ever the gentleman,

asks for one last dance.

 

Inspired by “My own apocalypse” by Sedeptra (Alexandra Semushina).