What is there even to think of
in times that mark the end
.
Like a great big light,
sour as the sun
standing at the corner of each room
Or on the road in front of the car
tears well up, closing eyes
to shake off, in the edge of minds
it is there too bright to ignore
What else is there to think of
.
The kind of fog that permeates
every cell in a body, weighing
each step as slow as the warm winds
Almost a homecoming, it is
sad and hollow, space for seeds
.
I see this vulgar sun in the corner,
looming, and in 8 months
what then? Shall I sit and stare
away as if it isn’t prickling all my skin
each moment, like the moon
obtuse in the sky though I only just
stepped out and still, she lingers
behind a tree. I am spinning like a loon,
where are you?
.
Heavy, vision blurring, one never knows
what it looks like,
sounds like, feels like
on the other side
of the End
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