some friday night poetry for my fellow insomniacs…

What Is At The End

It was just the afterglow
that sent me into this tailspin.
Where I couldn’t see where I was going,
only where I had once been.
Sitting on this precipice,
looking out over the sleeping below
as the world blew to pieces.
I drank a toast to what was,
took a shot in the arm
for what might have been
then I simply watched it burn.
From my seat above it all,
the sky was set afire
bright orange blazing.
This was how it all began,
it made the most fitting end.

For This, We Will Fight

Somebody said it would be fine
and I believed it, sat back, drank my wine.
This is the life of the lost
the forgotten left out in the cold, gathering dust.
You should have been transparent with your lies,
so I  would have known to call this a loss.
It seems my apathy has gotten the best of me,
when I should already be long gone.
This story was written knowing the end,
and as this all comes to a frothy head
we exchange cordial farewells. Moving on
we pretend that it is not destruction in our wake–
that the rubble left behind, does not contain our dead.
It was a war to find the bravest, the brightest stars,
the ones that saw it coming, and left before they went
to shallow graves for a song that played revenge.

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