doom

doth the anjels scream your name
can you hear their near-violent tones
can you hear the warning bell?
doth the weeds reach high, to their knees
reaching and scratching
tiny papercuts in the plain white legs drawing blood from holy places
is in not almost sad
when the clouds fall and crush the anjels and their
hope’s siren
and you are left to fend
in a desert whose every future is spelled
d - o - o - m
where the seasons are but a memory
and the aftermath makes mother nature
look like a whore
for what she has created
from each vantage you’ve a chance to see
another vantage and another trail of
nothingness and the
air is thick with time so fragile you
try not to breathe for
what other than mundane lies past
the moment and what
aside from destruction lines
the desert’s shores?
the whore mother nature
should’ve seen it coming
damn her