Apocalypse life


My guest house room in Varanasi, overlooking Mother Ganga

What to do with this love that moves
like immaculate conception?

I will gaze into the sun without blinking
Forge broadswords from abandonment
Battle plans from moonlight

I am without seed, or home,
Without God or country, spouse or paycheck

My seeds are my deeds, my home where I tread
God sleeps in my arms

My flag flies the colours of the Four Winds

Wedded to lost hope and the songs of seashells
Paid in the crumbled dust of buried scrolls

I have taken the Night Watch
Turning my collar against the cold
I wait…

For those who have lost the fear to live
The end of the world is a full-time job

About subincontinentia

writer and eternal optimist
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