.:: Blanket of Fire ::.
Betwixt anomalies, abominations of the watchful eyes of astronomy,
All for fool's gold, to reclaim the souls sold, to end all evil economies.
The planet's gravity grabbing missiles into its surface, leaving large cavities.
Mothers holding babies, praying for maybes, to stop this cruel, horrible tragedy.
Watching the ending world, the orange clouds of flame the skies so angrily hurled.
The apocalypse near, feeding off fears, taking no heed of the citizens fetally curled.
Gloved fingers smashing buttons, maelstroms ending all the world's gluttons.
His eyes glazed, oblivious to the event taking place, down the street, strutting.
People praying as he played God to cover the lands in flame, making it aesthetic.
Not harkening to the shouts, screaming for a devout to save all them, so pathetic.
The person to end it, bending wits, survival only for the people who are the most fit.
The demon coming to claim pain on this momentous day... showing his evil tricks.
And a topical I was messing around with...
Everything Average
ECSTATIC eclat resounding through the cryptic crowds of his mind,
applause an apparition of his imagination, leaking darkness divine.
The motif of his life left repeating recurrently every single normal night.
Each part of his life old news, never known the exhiliration from excite.
Memories overlapping and adding layers, slowly peeling away like onions.
Eyes closed, imagination intervening with routine, making him Paul Bunyan. ( XD Word.)
LIFE's mysteries made clear through his beliefs and his dreams.
In reality, he solved problems mathematically, using paper and means.
He woke up every morning, drinking coffee and eating an english muffin,
munching his food, his mind making his small, gaunt muscles toughen.
Like a Marvel Comic, a superhero flying away from every congruent week;
People suggested counseling, claimed that he was just overly oblique.
EVERY minute of his meaningless life was always so boringly methodic.
People were alarmed by his day dreams and black-outs, gave him tonics.
He'd imagine he was battling monsters, when really beating old seniles.
When friends told him it was make-believe he just shook his head, smiled.
They warned him not to have his dreams in the middle of driving his car;
he never listen, because in his mind he was drinking scotch with stars.
ONE day, he was coming home from another boring day of work;
he saw a store being robbed, parked his car, ran up to the scared clerk.
That day, he was institutionalized, for screaming at a rack of peanuts,
despite his pleading, teary cries that he could never just simply be nuts.