La Passion De L'Apocalypse Poem by Leo Briones

"When you expect the world to end at any moment, you know there is no need to hurry. You take your time, you do your work well." ― Thomas Merton

And then quick silver in the sky—
he walked before those clouds. He could not catch them
only see as one sees when it is overcast—
eyes squinting in the clever, piercing glare of gray.

To be sure there is something naked and credulous about the truth—
that chill of wind haunts the body, that ghost deep in the wounds of the bones.

When there is no marrow to sucked, no table of minerals and amino acids
to be swallowed from the chalice of days—
it is at that moment you know there is only sweat to flesh,
teeth to silken lips and human claw to spin and scapula.

I explode like a tornado that holds on
even as the rope's last string flays to its final resting place.

My clamor slowly dissolves from moans to crystal,
"This started long ago and will not end, now that it is ending."