Apocalypse is a feeling
not a number
not a fact
not an event
nor is it a fear.
It is my mind playing tricks on me.
Delving me into uncertain arenas of the unwell.
Wear a wool coat, breathing mint leaves,
chimes call out to answer heavens hopes degrading out.
A filament sheer, shying seams, dapper druids,
pleaing all the same.
They want food and a place to sleep.
I would give them my sheep if I had some.
I wander out to yonder pastures.
I have been told venturing into the great plains
is a way to walk out into suicide.
Fifty-fifty chances, biohazard romances,
move west or cleave with grievances and