My Little Apocalypse - Willow

It’s my little apocalypse:

Fingers colliding like soulless stars,

My heart a bridge to nightmares,

Mind limping, my own lost child

Found by the wrong touch,

Too much freedom made me 

Reckless, heady, crazy.

Carnations, offered to me by 

Beauty, perhaps I’m completely mad,

But my hands catch them, trembling

From desire. And there’s some something,

Maybe someone, like a match hugged by

Shadows, it yells at me to let go, but 

I put out the fire with my bare hands.

It burns. It makes me hazy,

My body stiffening like a marble statue.

As I watch the carnations fall to the ground, I realize I can move again,

Floating as lightly as a feather,

But my soul trembles, shakes as I try to stop one of the clocks hurrying around me

While I float in my bubble glass.

There’s gold and red, so much red, crimson.

It seeps through my fingers as I try to

Stop it and my earthquake keeps

Roaring, pushing me towards the edge of the abyss, I see void, utter void, a night sky with no stars, no moon.

I blow a dandelion, make a wish, take the last step myself and then turn my back to the emptiness to admire for the last time

The chaos I created by accident:

My little apocalypse.

Bio: Willow is a self-proclaimed writer and chaotic poet, she devours books and loves the moon and her tides. She tries to capture this helpless feeling of freedom in her prose and poems, sometimes to no avail, yet she hasn’t given up. She is currently working on a collection of creation myths, depicting all forms of Love.

Commentary

I love the analogy of 'shadows hugging a match' and the abstractness in this poem. Possibly, the object here is the poet's predisposition to things that disfavour them. Such a phenomenon is true to many individuals with lost hearts— lost, but not unaware of the calamitous (yet not unwanted nonetheless) events they breed.