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Poetry By
Abel Keogh
The End of the World
An hour before dawn fog drowns the city in
darkness. Its thick body swaddles homes and
holds orange street lights in an icy grasp.
From the mountain the city appears to be
consumed with a thousand fires and the
thick smoke of the end of the world.
It isn't the way I imaged it – the end of the
world that is. Looking up, there are no
angels, scythes in hand, descending to
separate the wheat from the tares. Only
Orion, the mighty hunter, arm poised to
strike, pursues Taurus across the sky.
There are no prayers of the righteous or
people fleeing to the mountains for safety.
Instead a cold breeze blows skiffs of snow
across the black road leading to the city, the
fire and smoke, and cries of the damned.
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