it wasn’t
the end of the world
though it was
an ending
which can be
difficult to
differentiate
as the ground
trembles and
he tumbles
downdowndown
into a hell of
his own creation
an execution of
soulspasming
rejections in
earnest anguish

he wasn’t good
at endings
a stack of books
with dogeared pages
marking final chapters
he never quite
managed to read
just stacked up
carefully as he
forced himself to
begin again
a cyclical delusion
in an abandonment
of finality as
defined by futility
in a fatalistic
melange of failure

it wasn’t
the end of the world
even as it
felt like catastrophe
just another ending
as lava plumes
ignite the atmosphere
a rolling wave of
fiery decimation
barely contained
by ozone deficiency
a blizzard of ashes
the charred remnants
reaching towards
the emptiness in a
coalescence of the
same damnations
he carefully denied

a dilution of
dreamcrystals in
a seven percent solution
injected into the
collapsing veins
of unfettered desire
watching each one of
his declarations
go callously ignored
he sits in a state
of permanent standby
never enough for
more than a fleeting
air of distraction
a well read librarian
in a dread forest
filled with distressed
reminders in pulped
hopefibers pressed
and stamped with the
words best left unread