Apocalyptica

staring down the sharp edge of an eclipse
eyes wide and waiting
veins begging for full-dark taste

Revolution is bloody, chaotic, visceral
survival snaps to the foreground

New world texture is more teeth than blanket

brain and body soft but getting less so

mind unfaded, purpose a fistful of
serration

Run like you mean it.

Spill blood like it’s instinct.

Nothing left to
fake.

A Poem for Overthrowing the Bourgeoisie. 

 

 

I’m reading Nightfall by Isaac Asimov and Robert Silverberg, hence the poem.  Riding out some slow-waved depression.  It comes and goes.  Sometimes I wake up and I feel okay.  Last night I didn’t even sleep at all.  Halfway through a 16 hour shift.  Didn’t know I could even do that on no sleep. Hm.

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