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Apocalypse

In this gray room,
On this gray floor,
Sit fifty statues,
Maybe more.

Mother, brother,
uncle, niece,
Devoid of love
But full of peace.

Roiling under,
Each stone face,
Storms grow,
Yearning for release.

To all the corners,
Of the skies,
They'd bolt,
If they'd materialize.

To sheer infinity,
They'd blow,
And kill the sun,
And kiss the snow.

And pound to pieces,
Each gray wall,
While statues break apart,
And fall.

And ages,
Of this ashen life,
Are cleared away,
To horn and fife....

.....and drum. Revealing,
All behind,
Perception's wall,
Which leaves us blind.

Come storm, destroy this placid mold,
And dip the universe in gold.

Submitted: Tuesday, March 12, 2013
Edited: Tuesday, March 12, 2013


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