Clouds Of Apocalypse

Leaded skies spread their canopy

across the mental canvas,

their perennial billows

ever burgeoning within weathered eyes.

 

But the sun still rides the air,

its light isn’t extinguished

by the binoculars of doomsday

whose owners can only see

clouds of apocalypse.

 

In a moment between

the clamor of prophesies

sung in notes from a droning dirge

of hope’s death knell,

there are those with viewfinders of truth,

who discern the real nakedness

each hue that hints

life is not a cataclysm rehearsal.

 

Duels of presumption

wag their tongues

with a dark lick of dialogue,

beguiled by demise obsessions

seduced by a holocaust succubus,

morning always arrives

unto these inclement addicts

devoid of the wind

and always left in a fog.