by Brett Rutherford
And just like that
the night sky lifted up,
curled up and halfway
over. It was no sky
but a roof. Who knew?
two-eyed and pale
and grimacing. I froze
in terror while others fled.
His darting orbs followed
the escaping horde.
He knows we are here,
that maybe millions
call this a world. A hole
a million miles across
opened, and sounds
like trumpets issued forth.
It was his mouth, and this
the call to judgment.
The sky resumes
its familiar blackness.
Manna still falls
and feeds us,
but we have gone mad.
Our days are numbered
and we know it.
Doom tramples over us.
The day of wrath has come.
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