Apocalypse

The metal blinds clink and scrape their way down as the grip on the noose is loosened

This is what happens after the sun has set and everyone has gone off to bed

Everyone but me, sitting alone in my room

Kept warm by the fire that feeds on every draft I throw its way

A line or two that goes wasted on a piece of paper that I could not expand into a poem

Lines that would make no sense together unless you tilted your head to the right

Then you would realize that they resemble claw marks

Jagged lines that have been made by me as I struggle to make sense of this happiness