Apocalypse. (22/09/17)

There’s such mystery in death.

Such mystery in fearlessness,

Or petrifying terror.

How do you think it will work when you get to the gates?

Do you think those pearly gates are above the entire universe?

Do you think the fiery gates are below the universe?

Or trapped within earth below the crust?

Waiting to break free for those final seven years,

Waiting to terrorize, to mesmerize, to find praise in the souls it’s branded with those three identical numbers.

God loved those ones, too

But a parent has to let go of the ones that didn’t make it through

To the next thought of theological bounds, spirits and angels, superstitious prophecies of someone who existed as a God trapped in man.

Remember to spell it with a capital, now.

They’ll choose a side and clash in a battle that’s supposed to happen one day or another

I bet some are counting down the days,

Crossing numbers on their infinite calendar

Conditioning them for grief of lost ones in battle.

Perhaps themselves, if they turn out to be the unlucky kind.

What will happen to those souls condemned to hell for eternity?

When finally the last demon is cut through the seams of tissue wrapped around their skeletons

Swords will penetrate their organs, and they’ll fly away somewhere

Maybe they’ll become dust, maybe they’ll just become another image

Another forgotten demon,

Left alone with no one to possess,

No one to carry their burdens.

But how could one die spiritually if spirituality is for eternity?

Is there an end to infinity when they all party in heaven

or struggle to breathe in hell?

Struggle to make another slice into their own -metaphorical- skin

To bathe in their own blood

To starve in their tombs, isolated together with all the other souls they hated when their brains functioned and prompted their bodies to do something- anything save rolling in their grave

Their screams capsuled in coffins or body bags floating along the riverbank

I hear they make some soundproof, now.

Don’t you think that hell will die when there’s no one there to run it anymore?

They’re already dead in a world of obscurities and ignorance in adolescence that haunts the generation that came before

Get your head out of the screen those who are young and dumb

Those who somehow run the world as we know it through their precious screens.

Create your art if you wish to have it exploited over waves in the air that somehow projects those words on a piece of glass you stare at for hours on end just trying to find something to fill yourself with.

Uselessness.

The self-love and hate of the same person,

Sometimes half of one if you’re willing to admit it

The voices provoking every move

It’s not just instinct or sudden impulse to do right or do wrong

It’s those two different side of you

The classic angel on one side and demon on the other

And no matter how hard you try you can’t shake them off

Some of them even take shifts

Get a demon of self harm, or suicide

Get an angel of self control, or self-sacrifice

You know the kind.

But we,

The secretive and cynical

Going against our own backs to surprise ourselves with more regret

With more letters plucked out of a keyboard

With more notes soaked with odes and tributes to things we wish we could forget,

Those people that haunt the past and keep us company in the present when we really get desperate for a hand to hold,

Or at least something to make fun of,

Something to make ourselves feel better.

But they are only the demons you make them,

The people they are,

And the notes you condemn them to.

xx.

-nonni.