Apocalypse, the fading of a love
which once burned so vibrantly.
The fall of an expression,
at the mark on your page—
or perhaps, that of a child.
Apocalypse, the scraping of knees
pitiful drawing of blood,
enough to make the noblest hearts
cry.
And Apocalypse, mistaken intentions;
forgotten identities.
for it is in he,
and it is in she,
and it is too, in they,
our story lives on.
and yet, it is all, whom we forget.
Oh, Apocalypse, how I dream
for these insignificant crises.
How I long for these simple matters.
How I wish to be struck by lightning,
to fail in my endeavors,
to be broken, beaten, forgotten.
Apocalypse, I wish to be anything
that is not this.
I wish to be anything,
which will not be gone tomorrow.
I wish even to be dead,
so long as another heartened spirit
might have a chance
to remember.
)



) but i absolutely loved it and the way your brain ticks