The End

There is a storm raging to get off the peaks and wreck a town, a life.

The sky is not empty; clouds spot the

distant horizon and birds hang from

the majestic blue suspended

manta rays lost in the wrong ocean.

Over where the mountains stab at the

blue with white frosted fingers, there

is a storm raging to get off the peaks

and wreck a town, a life, but it’ll

die where it was born like some

mating insect.

A sky darkens with the passing

of a butterfly that isn’t real

just a fake imitation of one

made by a toy company to tattoo

on the back of its kites.

They can give you a dragon that

spits fire and singes the air or

an albatross that way you can

trick sailors into believing the end

has come for them. But it hasn’t come.

Like a storm that dies miles from its predicted

target, the end has passed us by, robbed

everything beautiful. The sky, the birds

swimming through it, and the green grass

beneath.

The end plundered the rocks

to build a foundation at the base

of our feet. There it nips and spits

but never bites out at the hand

of humanity. It’s creator.

Every now and then

it drops catastrophe inside

our warm slippers and yaps

to be praised for its destruction.

Aigner Loren Wilson is a 6X Top Writer. Her work has appeared in P.S. I Love You, Arsenika, Illumination, and more. She is releasing a poetry collection, to be haunted, in the summer of 2021.