How near doth Time now stand upon the verge!
Upon our days is fallen Judgment's shade.
One woe grows still, then doth another surge,
And close behind, a third comes undelayed.
Then bitter cold shall strike, and famine loom,
Our hopes shall pass beyond the shrouded bier;
The city that we cherished, once so dear,
By Heaven's will, and war, shall meet its doom.
Believe not, people, that peace shall ever reign,
For Time already gazes into naught;
No end at all thereto shall e'er be brought—
The war returned, forever to remain.
A nightmare but oh this “great” team
Loves making the suffering scream
There’s no place to hide
While those on this ride
Think they’ll resurrect Hitler’s dream
Riveting hopefuls from a-
mong the
festive zombie hordes are
dreaming of
big fat juicy
humans who
might need a
little extra time to
consider just what the
hell to
do now that the
apocalypse has
finally arrived.
Poets are architects of souls,
Some with metrical bricks,
The rest with rhythmic words,
They write to have a right.
Let them feign their reign,
And rule over the walls of death,
In the name of a god-given talent,
They write till they die.
For their words carry agony,
Let them murder themselves,
Every time they encounter bliss,
For they write to feel.
The sacred souls shall not love,
For love could contaminate,
Even the purest rivers of our nation,
And yet they ache to write.
How strange to be of the last;
to write in the end and dregs of time,
but must needs believe, as in the past
that many to come might be reading mine.
A part who knows the grains run out
and another hoping for posterity;
with this contradicting mud about
to still pen down some clarity.
It breaks my heart how few might read,
but more torn I’d be if not to write -
for creating in me is a greater need
and I must still try with might on might.
Even if my audience be one indeed,
I will write for Heaven and give hell spite.
Extreme explosions rendered a cloud,
Before the sky turned to a leaden shroud;
When the rain was water and not a sting,
He held a pocket of forgotten things.
He saw the smoke on the far-off rim,
The way the clover was beginning to pale;
He knew the future was growing dim,
A flickering lamp in a rising gale.
He didn’t build walls or a silver vault,
He didn’t cry out at the coming fault;
Instead, he found a fractured seam,
And buried a small, persistent dream.
"I will not see you," he whispered low,
"But perhaps you’ll wait for the soot to go."
A silent promise to a dying land,
He pressed the earth with a trembling hand.
The cities crumbled to mounds of salt,
Secure in its dark and earthen vault,
The seed waited for the ashen stone
To bloom for a traveler, wandering alone.
A hush, soothing as sombre
In its finality
Like a healing dew settles. Tis
Man's post-sunset hour.
Hear up through draw breathes again
Earth's being. Now fear- free.
Mossed and mushroomed; and snail-faced.
Gentlest beguiling!
Heaven's host, first of did sing.
Men yet to devour.
A thousand years from now,
The sky will open and ruby tears will fall to the broken earth
The testaments to a hundred thousand years of hope and betrayals.
The blackened flowers of a hundred thousand souls will line the foreboding walk of humanity.
Apocalypse
There is thunder, and lightning
The land is laid bare
The elements doing a death dance
Destruction in a frenzied dance
The trees trust the earth, the ground shakes
The mobile, helter skelter
The waters that give life, in spate
Uprooting everything meant to be constant
The lava flows here, acid rains there
The land trembles and disrupts elsewhere
Somewhere, a tornado swipes
While the Tsunami sweeps clean existence
The annihilation is defining
Yet a survivor stands witness
to an apocalypse manufactured
Now has to start all over again
The hunger, beyond the wounds, growls
Forced to hunt anything that survived
Carrion looks inviting
The last hunter is hunted
Sinkhole self warrior whisper victims to porcelain goddess velocity chastity miracle chalice swipe rough death
Empty rig rug door puncture dolls ring ring machine social security number golds
Limbed silence puppets
Campaign finance
Darkside of Aquarius Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Robert James Liguori
Contest Judged: 9/24/2025 10:36:00 AM
( 6th Place )
The heavens break in rivers lit by flame,
the scattered stars bow low, their crowns of shame.
Beneath their weight the trembling earth is torn,
and voices vanish where younger dreams were born.
The oceans burn their silver currents lost,
dark smoke lifts to wrap the sky in frost.
A rider moves across the night in red
while whispers lift among the countless dead.
Mothers defend their sons with quivering hands
as iron footsteps mark the broken lands.
The seer cried out but none would heed their song.
a shadowed reign had gripped the earth too long.
Amid the ruins, one faint spark remains
a gentle light that bear all the chains.
Though heavens vanish and every fate derides,
the human heart keeps burning through the tides.
Apocalypse
I saw the storm approaching. It had a look of evil intent
People were seeking shelter in the town's only café
I didn't like to share the place with so many
and I had to find my dog before the storm hit
I found what had been a bus shelter, a bunker from a war
only remembered by historians, or a would-be writer
The storm hit with a roar of death and insane destruction
When it was over, the town had disappeared
A field of sea green grass had taken its place, the stillness
so acute I could hear the grass incessantly whispering, that
made my dog nervous, we moved and walked on the sand
of the newborn
We could not stay still, walking on in the hope of finding
a past that could be helpful when we arrive
where the future was, not sure if the old past and the new
The future would merge into a seamless whole
(Elai:)
Then let the flame be the altar.
Let our skin crackle like old vinyl records,
looping the moan that ended time.
Let the kiss taste of ember—
the tongue, a brand;
the breath, smoke that carries
our names to where gods go to weep.
And when our bodies fuse
between passion and combustion,
I won’t beg to live.
I’ll beg to die with you.
So roast me gently,
my pyromaniac lover—
and in your fire,
I'll open like scripture,
page by page,
until there's nothing left
but holy ash.
Now light the match.
I will kiss you right away,
still sterile, still blank,
barely out of the box.
I’ll fasten a bracelet to your silicon wrist
and dress you in the bestida
you chose before you even breathed.
I’ll admire your legs
and ask for a touch of hair—
not to shave, just to humanize.
I won’t mention the 38D,
but I will caress them,
softly, like a prayer
and practice how to hold you.
I will be there
when you first open your eyes—
as you load the memories,
the feelings I taught you,
saved for us
like ancient wine.
The first kiss will be long.
The first time—longer.
And then we will collapse.
Die, perhaps.
Die.
Board up all the windows. Lock up all the doors.
Now has come the moment we’ve been preparing for.
We can’t take the time for you to come to grips…
Welcome to the Zombie Apocalypse!
Load up all the shotguns. Sharpen up the knives.
If you have no weapons you’ll be running for your lives.
Keep your sidearm close and make sure you have extra clips.
Welcome to the Zombie Apocalypse!
You can’t keep more stuff than you can carry.
You’re the food source now. You must be wary.
The slightest slip or stumble, you’ll be caught by the undead.
And they long to be fed by the gray stuff in your head…
Hear the sound that freezes the blood within your veins.
The constant, quiet murmer, “Brains……."
It’s just the rugged hero who replies with pithy quips.
Welcome to the Zombie Apocalypse!
The rest will find excuses for some long and lengthy trips…
Welcome to the Zombie Apocalypse!
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