A beautiful day at the beach;
The golden sand reflecting the vibes of the sun,
The enthusiastic waves getting higher each time,
People shifting their weights between the kudos for the restless beauty
And the ethos of the damp air that came in turns of intermittent hypocrisy,
As the fiery birds, the very guardians of goodwill,
The elements of peace,
Living by the penance of sinners,
Were slaughtered with hands too cold,
By the merchants of malice and the apostles of deception.
He came then, the Apocalypse,
In his chariot of fire,
With eyes a tad darker than the night,
Tongue venomous than any venom can ever hope for to be,
And a halo forged of tempestuous sins and tyrant might.
He laughed for the hilarity of his power.
His reckon of all the rubble and havoc sent warmth down his spine,
From which he often spawned his minions from the inferno.
His breath came like Noah’s waters,
Rebuked the prospects of goodness,
Towered the bounds of sacrilege,
And disintegrated people by multiples.
And sacrilege was as he said, “Let there be darkness”,
From his eyes came a black light,
More luminous in its caliber that it had to blot the sun out
And surround the elements of the world with pronounced darkness.
A blow from the venomous tongue detached the moon,
And kicked the sun to an unusual northern dip.
From the oceans condensed a lagoon of blood,
Then there were lagoons;
When there was only blood in the oceans — blood too thick –
Even the Apocalypse had to feel disdainful.
The dead lay,
The souls stuck in the eventuality,
Seeking resurrection, a chance to marinate goodwill with more good;
To protest against the fallacies of sinful pleasures,
To bury weapons and have vengeful oppressions to go with it;
To succumb to weakness, and even agree to have a very hollow body —
Because that was preferable to having a hollow for a body.
And it all crumbled on them:
There was no place in the rubble to build themselves on —
What had been, and what could have been had been reduced to ash and dust.
The Apocalypse clapped.
He was very ill-mannered to laugh at such destruction.
He drank from a bloody ocean with a skull for a chalice.
And as he walked his cruel feet around,
He wondered if he was content.
He understood that contentment itself did
Not lie in the bloody art he had created,
Nor in the absence of any living form whom goodwill can be inherited from.
He was content, yes, and he knew why:
The world lay at his feet, destroyed, annihilated,
Completely so in every manner,
Also, with a Judgment short.
