Loyd David Burt
Apocalypse At The Gates Of His Imagination - Poem by Loyd David Burt
He walked into the garden and gazed up into the sky
His face displaying melancholy, a tear formed in his eye,
And as the shadows lengthened the sun began to fade,
He slowly shook his head and sighed as he thought of the plans he’d made.
Lost in thought he stood there staring sightless, at the stars
His mind carried him through galaxies, transported him to Mars.
He rested on a rainbowed cloud that was full of morning dew,
And saw twin moons lying lazily in a dreamy sky of blue.
Way beyond the recumbent moons several horsemen he did espy
Was this in fact the Apocalypse, was he about to die?
Lightning flashed before him, illuminating all around,
Followed by a growling thunder, such a dreadful, eerie, sound.
Sepulchral monuments reared up in the now ebony shadowed sky,
Like a granite forest beneath which, the dead are made to lie.
Fragile barges drifted on through a swirling misty sea,
Ferrying Death from all the worlds, to this galactic cemetery.
For here souls are reincarnated, perchance reborn once more,
Then ferried by these boatmen, according to ancient law,
Back to atone for their sinful ways, so that they may reach a higher plain
And for those of us who do not atone, we’re ferried back and forth again.
Such was the vision shown to him of humanity and its fate,
As he stood alone and terrified at his imagination’s gate.
Had he atoned sufficiently or were his efforts of no avail,
Should he offer up his soul today, dare he cross the veil?
The moment came, then his chance was gone, he stood staring at the sky,
The tear that had formed ran down his cheek, it was not his time to die.
He slowly turned and walked back, the Horsemen circled overhead,
Then they rode off into the darkness, searching for the Dead
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