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Apocalypse, at sunset:
Noxious gasses
form animal clouds,
phenomenon of pareidolia,
that babble and spurt
while below, the purple
sludge burps and the
tired forest catches fire.
The sun glows on,
sinks low, brilliant
orange strikes the sky.

Apocalypse, at daybreak:
Mushroom clouds cluster
along the crimson horizon;
thunderous booms shake
crisp leaves from long-dead
trees. Birds scream
morning sounds.
Craters form in
dusty bowls.
The rivers run red
with blood.

Apocalypse, at midday:
Everest has fallen,
Mount Olympus, too.
Gods tangled in humanity
forgoing palaces for catacombs.
Sink holes consume
fields of gold.
The wise man
builds his house

Apocalypse, the witching hour:
Split moon cuts the fearless gloom,
sneering at tsunami waves
Bogs rise, towers collapse
Yellow fog withers
plagues of locusts.
Red Sea flooded, resurrecting
sunken ships bound for
nonexistent promised lands.
At least the fire
is out.

S.R. Tombran is an Indo-Guyanese American, virtual reference librarian, and fantasy and sci-fi author. She has published works in STAR*LINE and You can connect with her at @STombran.
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8 Aug 2022

my uncle walks around with amulets tied to his waist
Cia transits between you: a moon the size of home, a tiny hole in Shapa’s swirls.
Foxglove was called Foxglove not because of the flower, but because she could slip into the skin of a fox like a hand into a glove.
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