The Hands of Apocalypse

Perennial night smothering in ashen pallor dreams,
endless strolls in solitude hearing death screams echo in the spine.
Poignant piercing visions flood in bloody claret streams
can’t escape their haunting presence of hell  biting insides.

Hours surrendering sanity to the doomsday sight so horrifying
when praying for prophetic gaze, bringing a bedeviling light,
stirs the dreaded demon images of fiery intense fright to nerves
who spread a mental tapestry of tormenting plight for humanity.

Suffering seer, must pay for the gold of tribulation wisdom
knowing the time unveiling when judgment shall claim all life,
that bear its truths as a knife that slices through the peace
and shreds the serenity that once shrouded in ignorance’s lace.

From simple laborer and dutiful worshipper the trail began,
a vagabond walking  red hot coals of apocalyptic figment stones,
every eye seen so hollow and cast in reaper’s whispers clutch,
their fate bedecked in thunderbolt tales felt to the sage’s bone.

Tomorrow is the horizon offering only a cemetery’s landscape
as the Armageddon pocket watch ticking in the mind
strikes its bongs of writhing resound upon the moment,
unable to escape the rendezvous of man with divine wrath.

Cursed to wander and warn souls that have no faith
watch their skepticism sneer at the veracity from heaven’s lips,
sometimes lamenting the petition for knowledge was answered,
now to bear the painful awareness from end of earth’s alarm clock.

It always brings the worst agony when sitting in some pew
where those who attend their favorite temples
are the first to reject the words this oracle’s voice would share
content to sing their songs and pretend the ruin will never come.

One more eve spent traveling the earth under a dark cloud
aware the future is but a holocaust epilogue waiting to be written,
this passage more expensive than could ever have been imagined,
in blissful days of before the world became,
destruction’s lethal waiting game.