regretfulflower

I think that maybe I am the Apocalypse. I chew on poems about dew-sprinkled daffodils and the way the sunset drip-drop bleeds into the ocean. Something dark coils in me at the beauty of it all – As if we are not all born of famine, of pestilence, of war, of death. As if existence is more than marching towards the end of the world. My stomach is a pit of rabid dogs. What I throw into it, it devours, and when I throw it nothing it howls for hours then turns its teeth upon itself. I hunger for a life that reads like a fairy tale, humanity clawing at the edges of the hollow - consumed by the narcissistic need to have a purpose, to leave