The time will come for the world to end.
No doomsday, no tidal wave
no scalding molten rock
Just a small breeze
to take the pain away.
Can we remember how the world begun?
Not really.
Can we foresee the collapse of earth?
Not... really.
But the end of the cosmos
will be like the start
Silent, solid, foreign
an old angel is learning how to paint.
Throw in all you've got,
go on
the falling stars are wishing wells
The dreams you never cashed in,
the loves you never forgot
When she next sits down to paint
in a dynasty of white
she'll fish out all the things you lost
and fling them like glitter on planets
and in a different body we'll wake
no fingers forty toes
no ego, snout and wings
all of these are purer things
The earth will spin again,
using a different name.
See old dimes aren't for spending
aren't for wasting
aren't for crying rivers over
They are meant for saving
they are for holding onto
and knowing what they bring you
is beyond what they can buy.
YOU ARE READING
Lives Collide
PoetryDo I contradict myself? Very well then I contradict myself, (I am large, I contain multitudes). - 'Song of Myself,' Walt Whitman It's hard to know sometimes who you're meant to be. And that's kind of okay. One day I feel like a witch, another like...
