1.
For Sale:
one front row ticket
for the end of the world
Don’t worry, baby, there’s nothing
about what comes after we don’t know.
Look at her there …too busy to attend
Bargaining for another day in a world of
no more guarantees.
The aftermath, is secondary
the dust, well, is much more certain.
2.
Why?
Being the spectator has never been her scene
Popcorn and fear together taste weird
She tried being the spectacle … dancing
in a little bright yellow strapless number
gold lipstick and hair dyed the
colour of despair. The end days
were upon them she was entitled
or determined to die to music
to try to forget the lucky one's
were already dead.
3.
.
Her hangover whispered
"Who said this was a party" First
Then “Define lucky?”
The high wears off
The party is not a good enough distraction …
The hangover found her grim in boots
tied for miles of bad road.
Running around - preparing
or standing at checkpoints holding on to
“baby, we’ll make it through”.
Deciding what to give away for tomorrow
was never meant to look pretty
Or hoping to miss among the
running and the bargaining
and the dust and the potholes
and the being angry
the day the world actually ends
4.
The end days become a to do list,
Like everything they become a habit
A bag of supplies ,
a list of contacts
The end days only seem out of the ordinary
If she looks back on before,
on the dust covered
remains of whatever
the wind didn’t blow away
But this was then and this is now
or any other banality
The end days become a to do list,
a home – the paint has peeled
but it will serve, it has too.
àäðåñà: https://www.poetryclub.com.ua/getpoem.php?id=722281
Ðóáðèêà: Ñòèõè, êîòîðûå íå âîøëè â ðóáðèêó
äàòà íàäõîäæåííÿ 08.03.2017
àâòîð: petra pan