Poem-A-Day: Day 133

Met Apocalypse

Metaphorically speaking,
the apocalypse is standing
with feet turned slightly away  from each other,
clockwise
and counter-clockwise
respectively,
watching us from under a dark brown fedora,
lurched forward slightly
with arms crossed,
stoically exercising the demons
that tiptoe through crazy gardens
leaving thoughts for pennies;
cents for sense.

Metaphorically speaking,
the apocalypse watches
from the corner of a mine,
dwarfing everything else in a subtle way,
and dreaming
the floating white horse,
a pale horse,
beholding death,
who merely laughs
and high-fives apocalypse so thunderous,
that underwear everywhere is collectively soiled,
plowed,
and cultivated for crops.

Metaphorically speaking,
the apocalypse moves slowly,
the amorphous minutes ticking riddle
that kills life slowly
every magical day,
laughing monotone sounds
that barely penetrate contextual Cerberus
howling sunset majesty down rivers
gone yellow around the edges;
time methodically disappearing
drifting away into destruction,
because as it stands,
apocalypse doesn’t seem to know any better.