The end of the world seeps in through the cracks
enveloping silent reality in the cold dark
no apocalyptic fires or shivering earth
not inundation or raging storm
the end of the world consists of little things
that break and roil ‘gainst the shores of existence
of loneliness and sorrow wrought of fallen dream
of lost nights in shallow grave mind
heart-rent lyric from a forgotten chorus
the end of the world rolls in like mist on an autumn morning
rising in crepuscular air, strange forms in writhing phantasm
permeating flesh and bone and soul
an intimate conclusion for each outcast heartbeat
words fall to desuetude in malicious coda
the end of the world is glass shattered mirrors
on unswept floors of barren beings
susurration cessation of the stillness coming
one million reflected lights from a single eye
suffocated in chilling breath and ragged word
the end of the world drips stalactites relentless
in twilight caverns to cuspated points
slow evisceration of old-held belief, hewing
entropy in frozen-frame images from a lost silver screen
eroded acetate of abandonment dreams

Te mutunga. Acrylic on canvas

My faculty for language is returning and my post-stroke cognitive abilities seem to be in full recovery. I realise this is a rather bleak piece, but there you have it

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