Rapture

I looked up one day from weaving with the razor, scarlet threads across my arms, to see the sky boil. The fever dreams of the maniac from Patmos were realised, and this was the end of everything. The predictions of every conspiracy theorist and schizophrenic between now and the dawn of time made flesh, with rockets arcing with the graceful precision of determined massacres through the sky.

Death rides not a pale horse but a weapon of mass destruction, clothed in flags and iron determinations. And as we lucky few shift our eyes upwards to the blinding flash and the black rain, the remainder of the world sees their fate made ours. War, famine and pestilence have long made fiefdoms of their lands, and now the earth is taking back what is hers.

Burning eyes and screaming, shadows sand-blasted onto walls, a desert called peace. No messiah coming, no judgement, just amoral suffering and three-minute warnings. The theists had one thing right, and one thing only; the light. A thousand suns burst from the air like man's wrath risen. Disintegration takes hold now, tremors in the ground and the sound of distant crying. Pretensions vaporised with families, we have come full circle.

Picking through the ruins while alarms wail and bodies groan, I know it's almost over now. Not long to go, before everything falls away. Crawling west through debris and hubris, entrusting to fate. I see you before me, and all our confusion is swept away. We draw close, and hold hands as the world ends, not with a bang, or a whimper, but a final kiss and a beautiful explosion of light, tearing us apart and blending us back into the maelstrom, fully entwined. And as our flesh sears we lift higher, looking down at the death below. We are infinite.