This is the world ending, the boom of
Big love, the trumpet of a forlorn
Horn bugling a cracking exterior.
It is every fight that
Calms within a mere look
And the whispers of those
Totally let loose from
Their caged in hearts.
It is a symphonic cacophony
Of beautiful blaring sound
Shown brightly on a once blue
Canvas; this is the painting of
A heartbroken weeper and
Anything simple.
This is the busy day
Bright blue yellow green
In ecstasy; this is the
Destruction of one lost
And the power to be recovered
After feeling the fullness
That should not be yours to bear.
It is things far too awake
Which should be preparing for sleep
And a hectic day, at last
Getting to be lazy.
This is an
Epiphany had in
Drifting consciousness
This is anything you want to
Think in your last fading
Thoughts, maybe even
Vanilla scented letters
Or a book brimming with years.

This is the you at
The beginning of the day
Reconciling with the
You that comes out
Just before the moon.

This is the setting of
A single day and the
Beginning of another.
This is a sunset and

It's the end of our world.