Anonymous
6/16/2025, 7:13:42 PM No.40543039
“The End Is Nigh”
There will come a silence so wide
it will press against the eardrums of the earth—
a pressure before the scream,
as if the world holds its breath
beneath clouds the color of old bruises.
The light will twist,
a jaundiced violet,
like the flesh of gods struck down too soon,
and in the stillness,
you’ll smell the ozone’s ache—
the taste of metal,
of batteries boiled dry.
And then:
a hum,
not heard but felt,
will ripple through the bones of buildings,
up through concrete and marrow,
a low and ancient sound like
language trying to remember itself.
(the word before the Word before the world)
The sun will blister behind gauze-clouds,
a lidless eye melting in its socket.
Below, the trees will stiffen,
roots tangled in warning.
From the western rim of thought
will bloom a blossom of red fire—
petal by petal it will unfold,
a corona of flame dragging the sky behind it,
tearing holes in heaven with electric fingers.
And something will fall.
Burning.
Screaming.
Not a vessel—
but a wound.
It will carve the air like a god returning home drunk.
Lightning will lash the mountains.
Wind will arrive not like a whisper, but a war cry.
And in the moment after the light,
after the sound,
after the shape—
Only ash will remember the names of things.
There will come a silence so wide
it will press against the eardrums of the earth—
a pressure before the scream,
as if the world holds its breath
beneath clouds the color of old bruises.
The light will twist,
a jaundiced violet,
like the flesh of gods struck down too soon,
and in the stillness,
you’ll smell the ozone’s ache—
the taste of metal,
of batteries boiled dry.
And then:
a hum,
not heard but felt,
will ripple through the bones of buildings,
up through concrete and marrow,
a low and ancient sound like
language trying to remember itself.
(the word before the Word before the world)
The sun will blister behind gauze-clouds,
a lidless eye melting in its socket.
Below, the trees will stiffen,
roots tangled in warning.
From the western rim of thought
will bloom a blossom of red fire—
petal by petal it will unfold,
a corona of flame dragging the sky behind it,
tearing holes in heaven with electric fingers.
And something will fall.
Burning.
Screaming.
Not a vessel—
but a wound.
It will carve the air like a god returning home drunk.
Lightning will lash the mountains.
Wind will arrive not like a whisper, but a war cry.
And in the moment after the light,
after the sound,
after the shape—
Only ash will remember the names of things.
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