apokalyps

Beneath the dome of India ink
and the bits of paper debris
fall on my face as I rummage
through what used to be my temple.
What I used to call the sun
rises up, turning the sky grey.
Covered in cuts and wounds
and with no hope I still walk
looking for someone.
Tears stain the burnt books
and wash away the blood.
Happiness seizes to exist.
It doesn't hurt anymore.
I'm not who i used to be.