End of the World

The fabric is swollen black. Clutched to sour breasts. The hour is eager to follow the pattern of broken veins.

With the white world out there. And the grey within. Wearing your habits like pajamas you construct a tenative bed. As if to sleep could give rest to such adamant fears. Alone in your crowd you pass silently from one stranger to the next like a virus on their fingers.

The fabric is close to your skin. As you wear the colors it becomes. You touch a finger to your chest and feel the subtle indentation of life as it carves its steps.

The white world out there upon you gaze and tell yourself it's only a facade. That the sky has fallen. But that it can and will fall many times before it's done.

You think the end of the world is waiting somewhere in a small town or a small country. And you imagine it. All those earnest lives floundering once their purpose has been stripped. You imagine it and smile because purpose is the one thing you've never needed.

It's strange, that the world turns white here sometimes, but in other places it's always grey.

And you think to yourself. If the end of the world were ever to come it would be as white as this one is. And they'd never see it coming. But I'd be ready and waiting. I always have been.

Because the end of this world has to be the beginning of a new one.