Thirteen already. Warning: this might be the darkest I'll get in these poems. If you hate it, you can blame poxmaker and his review for Blown It, which made me see it in a different way that stuck with me until I could get it out here. If you love it, then you have poxmaker and the song Born To Quit to thank, because without both of them I would have given up on this.
Apocalypse Tonight
And now the sky is black and threatening over
valleys so suddenly red. Your arms are extensions
of the rage you can't explain and can't contain;
they fly like axes and fell your brother like a tree.
You always hate yourself by now, but this time
it's worse. Call in the hearse. You see the gloss of
the eyes that see nothing now. Death glistens.
You curse his corpse as you try to beat
the life into him like you beat it out.
You lean, and you press, and you beg his lips
to move. You love a ghost now, you suppose, and
scream against your common sense. Hugging his
chest, you seek to bring the heat that's quickly leaving.
You fall inside him, shake him, try to make him
move! He's inanimate now; he's gone and you know it.
You know. You know. You know. You don't. You don't know
anything. You blink, blink, blink and dry your eyes.
You fall, and you bawl, for he sees you again, he moves.
He says your name; you curse yourself; you cannot move.
Your desperate attempt to get what you want by doing nothing
is coming afterward. He's climbed on top of you.
He calls, and calls, and you can only cry and shake your head.
For all that you knew in the world was your lover was dead.
Finally you're slapped out of it, and
suddenly awake in your bed.
As you're holding each other, you and your brother,
neither of you come to realize a
malevolent part of you met its damned end that night.