Apocalyptic poems, posted every m-f.

the bog at nighttime

the raids escalate until everyone leaves the city

the man we used to buy coffee from
lives alone, amidst the reeds and predatory rodents
in the mud

terrible things are tangled in his hair and beard,
he wears the skulls of squirrels around his neck –
his favourite one has no eye holes

in this dream i keep having,
i am staring baffled at the skull with no eye holes
until i realize that i can’t stare at anything
because i have no eye holes

i wake up drenched in sweat


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