Apocalyptic Angels

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A darkness; a night unlike another settles upon the land

Icy acidic winds roar across the open fields and streets

It slices through the brittle foliage, shredding any sign of life

The sun remains dark, hidden as if trapped in an eternal eclipse

Smoke and mist snake through the gardens, strangling and smothering

And a dryness, descending on the fields and drinking greedily

Crops reduced from vibrancy to withering husks in mere moments

Domestic beasts age and collapse without warning where they stood

Their carcasses soon to be fetid and revolting start to bloat

Humankind, or what’s left of it, struggles to find direction

Resources disappear in what feels like a single blink of the eye

No one has posted a sign, but everyone knows…welcome to the apocalypse

Dark angels plunge into the deepest of oceans, poisoning aquatic life

Others slink along rocky crags, slipping quietly into the bands of warriors

Discord and disruption their modus-operandi, to them it’s but a game

Others spread their heavy stained wings, taking flight with destinations unknown

While others instead spread their legs, offering false hope to the living

Passion mired in toxicity; a moment of pleasure in exchange for a soul

Roaring storms erupting without warning catapulting dust and debris

Yet nary a drop of water falls, and the few that do are miserly absorbed

The hardened ground remains indefinitely firm, with nary a fissure

Hope, that eternal currency which men so value, ceases to have value

Acrid air reeks of sulphur, brimstone, volcanic ash, and foul rancidity

Peril a constant scourge, each and every corner a potential catastrophe

Apocalyptic angels wait almost comatose-like as our numbers fall

Filling their time with torture, pain, and deviant sexual pleasures

Hollow men and women, devoid of their former selves, become playthings

Shackled by the darkness, stripped of dignity, laid bare upon the altar

The dark angels and their hunger for souls never ceases, never abates

Few have hidden themselves; confined in thin splinters of their former world

Left to question the unfolded events, trying to recall if their was a sign

Waiting for a savior, but resigned to perish at hands of the unholy

 

 

 

 

thegypsy

Owner/Admin at The Gypsy Thread
As a hopeless romantic at heart, Ralph indulges in romantic poetry, but also allows his mind time to wonder across all subjects.A master of vocabulary and word-use, Ralph has a writing style that gives his works their own life, often giving his readers just enough information that they end up doing additional research on his subject matter.
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