Poetry By
Abel Keogh
Published on: 7/14/2006
The End of the World
An hour before dawn fog drowns the city in darkness. Its thick body swaddles homes and holds orange street lights in an icy grasp. From the mountain the city appears to be consumed with a thousand fires and the thick smoke of the end of the world. It isn't the way I imaged it the end of the world that is. Looking up, there are no angels, scythes in hand, descending to separate the wheat from the tares. Only Orion, the mighty hunter, arm poised to strike, pursues Taurus across the sky. There are no prayers of the righteous or people fleeing to the mountains for safety. Instead a cold breeze blows skiffs of snow across the black road leading to the city, the fire and smoke, and cries of the damned.
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