Apocalypse

November 1st, 2017

It is another crisp, clear dawn at my folk’s lake home at the river.  I strike a match and light an intimate fire.  As I quietly fish for breakfast separate from all others and sleep deprived I am keenly aware of my surroundings.  Funny, I do not sleep much, but it does not matter.  Survival mode has been upon me for quite some time.  As I stare at the water hoping for a bite I cannot help but think it’s been one whole year already.  How can that be?  The word, surreal, comes to mind.

I still have my sister’s locket, I hold it close daily.  That and a picture of my family is all I have left of a world that I used to know.  Well, those and a cold, steel Glock.  Nothing matters anymore but survival.  Is that really true?  I often ask myself, why is survival so important.  Why not step into the darkness to gain vision of the light?  Because there is still more that I want.  So much more…  At nineteen years of age my life is not over and I’ll be damned, if I allow the undead to take that away from me.  I have stayed clear, free and trapped, in my hiding place nestled in the natural beauty and resources of the lake.  I have been supplied with fresh mountain water, fruitful trees, the sweet mountain air and the morning chimes of the song birds.

Look, I got a bite!

This poem is about: 
Our world
Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 

Comments

Need to talk?

If you ever need help or support, we trust CrisisTextline.org for people dealing with depression. Text HOME to 741741