Seven Weeks Since Judgment Day

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic
It's been seven weeks since the end of the world. Who's left?

Submitted: December 22, 2011

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Submitted: December 22, 2011

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Jilted rain, like static, stang

As the fugitives arrived:

The poets and their jabberwocks,

And their tongues that ripen wise.

But our voices have been swallowed whole,

Still sour, tasting green.

There’s no time left for men to learn

What constellations mean.

Hoist your musket, wide-eyed boy,

Shrug off your mother’s ghost.

No time for ink, no time to think,

Don’t try to look too close.

Just our luck, that mankind’s last,

Are bastards of the rose and sea.

Our final warriors, only hopes,

Are restless, realm-less kings.

I hold a dying soldier tight,

And shout, Don’t waste your breath on words.

But her soul succumbs to poetry,

Her final thoughts stillborn.


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