The End

I always knew the end would come,

but I never thought

that it would be

like this.

Where, may I ask, are the glimmering towers?

The sparkling spires that

shatter the light

as they crumble

to the ground?

Why is the Earth not splitting open,

revealing its boiling bowels

and its deepest, darkest ditches?

How are the angry mountains,

that have long since slept dormant,

not spewing their ferocious fury

of lava, covering and destroying

everything around them?

But no.

The world remains completely unchanged

except for a small speck of dust

that has been swept

almost carelessly

away.

Foray into Imagism

This poem needs a lot of critique, but on a basic level I like it a lot.

Foray into Imagism

There are wars to be fought
worlds to be circumnavigated
in battleships of iron and oak 
dark priests with spells of amber
and blood
and clerics with their staves of God.

There are men, bound with 
the frayed hemp ropes of
Common Cause, men who
hope every day their bonds
do not snap
with the stress of their coexistence.
 
The heavens roil above,
cardamom thunder, 
tartar lightning,
and sweet cayenne heat
waves 
lashing the humid earth. 

When the lifeblood comes,
thick and fast like a mountain
stream in early summer,
the soil drinks it thirstily,
unwillingly.
All the while thinking No More. 

And the staves of God fail,
for He is not,
and the dark spells fail,
for they are not,
But the thunder gouges
ever on,
and the blood falls thicker than before
as faith fails
and iron prevails.

Jelle...
I absolutely love this idea! No poem yet to share, but this is so great. Keep writing!
Mrs. Graham