i take pictures everyday
every single day
mostly of the skies
to evidence the fate of
come what may

not unlike the Colonel
in his century of solitude
with his daguerreotype
pointed at the skies
trying to capture the face
of god in the clouds.

for I fear our doom is up
there hurtling towards us

i can feel
it change
it's in
these shifting
seasons.

it's in
the orange glow
of the cities
beneath the
billowing
skies.

it's in
the trees
on fire,
in the
shrieking
of the night.

in the lonely
call of the
last birds
that refuse
to take
the sky.

the blades
are upon
our nape and
i can feel
the change.

the shadows fall
long and merciless
over the dust of
this brutality
and your hopeless
despair.
all you are
is under siege.

at the end of
your dreams you
wake up with the
taste of iron on
your tongue and
your heart's metallic
clang beating a
terrible rhythm.

those roofs
that our
fathers
built

have all
tumbled in.
cinders
glowing

in our
simmering
rage

the rafters
caved
in over

the blistered
rotted
floors

where we've
lain like
mute

dogs
whimpering
and begging

for the
hunger

for the
darkness

to subside

all that
remained
was the
ash. falling
gently
upon our
lashes
and lids
as we
closed
our eyes
against
the laden
greyness.
and into
the final
slumber we
sloped away
with the
embers
softly
hissing.

awakened to
things falling
from the skies
filling the
streets,
drowning
the sidewalks
in blood
and heavy,
broken

hearts.

this is not new.

this is
not

new!

for ages we
have screamed
into and
through
these long
nights of
bewilderment
and horror.

yet,
every time
these falling
horrid
things
take us
by surprise,
crumpling
our measly
souls
of tin.

leaving us
marveling at
the spurious
novelty
of our
own

iniquity.

in these grey
mornings
searching
for hymns
of triumph,
and truth,
and the helpers
but alas there
is none to be
or to have.

so i brace
myself, for
the darkness
swells.

disintegration.
all this here
moves toward
its end.

it is there.
in the whispered
hush of
leafless trees.

in the obliterating
light at the
close of the
penultimate night.

ready yourself
for that knife
because in this
endeavor you
have no say and
of this you've
dreamt big dreams.
in such sorrowful
reverie the skin
slips from the
bone and in this
wasting you've
found rejoice
that now they've
left nothing of
you. a death
cinematic
in its enormity.
totalitarian
in its finality.

driving past
the solitude
of that night,
ready yourself
for what may
come forth
from the dawn
slit horizon.

the smoke fills
in quickly,
the day blurs
what the trees
have left
behind. there
is a little
pang of in
the hollow
beneath your
ribcage.

as you
dream of sun
lit memories
trembling in
the wells of
your eyes.

ah, to move
with gentle
agility
through the
night...

instead
a clumsy
staggering
racket devoid
of grace

i turn my
head, so the
mucus can
slide to
the other
side of my
skull

and the
ringing in
my ears
swills from
right to
left

this is
something
else, a
shallow
breathing
through the
throbbing
night

an insipid
dance with
exhaustion
breathing in
the shards
of this
shattered
heart

the impermanence
of this notion
that this is
us standing
at the edge
of the tar pits.
our future
now a bubbling
blackness.
the stench of
this darkness,
the coagulation
of it in
our throats
and sinuses,
the attempts at
a simple breath
have now become
our belabored
futility.

the braying of great beasts
trundling through the
opaque mists of their
nefarious sorrows

their legs giving out
their souls cracking
with sounds like
arthritic knuckles

their chests heave
once, twice and
crush beneath the
plodding weight of

their surrendering
hearts

i have
a jealous
green heart
blackened
with smoke
and soot
and cliche
splashing
through
sentimentality
like a
drowning
idiot

the switch blades
quick as lightning
enter at the base
of the skull
where that flesh
is tender, soft.
into where
everything is
white hot.

into the blinding
light i go
dancing with
falling leaves

there is no
comfort in
this repose

there is no
reverence,
no solace

for a
dying
world

out from the haze
of the blotted sun,
our transgressors
anointed in acids,
lay waste to
all our lands
our blood running
cold and thin
in the raining fires
death comes from above

descending in obdurate
hordes, the chill of
the dawning greets us
with hopes of death
and their blades
warm with blood,
their eyes hollow
with greed

seek refuge from the
vile swarms in
those ivory towers
built tall from
the friable bones
of our dead
on these,
the raptures
of our harrowed,
mournful days

witness the conflagrations
of these, the last days
when fire came from
the sky and the ash
looked like the first snow
of our last winter

in the distant baying
the cries of confusion,
chaos, pandemonium

yet you stood still on a hilltop
at peace, serene, easy
aglow in the fires' light
saying farewell to this
and that madness

the days
grind
to dust.

our sorrow
swells
the clouds.

we have
nothing to
ask of you

any longer.

this is now
our deepest
river.

devoid of liquid
but swift
and eager

to drown.

we move,
like all
things,

toward
the end.

in this,
the penumbra
of depression
emblazoned across
falling skies
the soul
liquifies,
and its slow
turn to acidity
corrodes
motivation,
stiffens all
the joints.
the rest
pours through
thin fingers,
intertwined
and seized
feebly grasping
at the void.