The End of the World

The end of the world approaches.
We will go out in style,
luxury and decadence.
The sky will open like prison gates
iron grey, while below we drown
in gold, the manmade kind
that will never have the value
of Old Sunshine.

Oh, misery-!
that this is to be our fate;
burnt from the earth
by rain and fire and drought,
as pestilence is burnt
from a cadavre,
as the mummy
is prepared.

But as the cogs are scoured,
I will sit, grave and still
in the last bar of Old Sunshine
and love as a virgin loves.
I will not see their starving faces,
nor hear their lurid screams;
I will close my eyes as
their architecture falls.

Our bridge of dreams will break,
swamped by golden, swollen seas.
There will be nothing left to give,
but the very last pure heart-
mine, beating.
And everything will cease
but your memory, trapped
in Old Sunshine.

Again...

Again, again
I've written your name
in my little book.

Train, train
again, your name
scrawls itself.

Grass, grass
tumbles past.
I write your name.

Keep, keep
your memory, asleep
under my coat

Grey, grey
old motorway.
I write your name.

Eyes, eyes
and billboard lies
grow and shrink.

See, see
Nothing is free
but your name.

I don't usually post poems straight out. I write them up on word, leave them for a few weeks, then come back an fussily change one or two words. If I'm still not happy it will be another few weeks before they make it onto the net. Sometimes I forget that I've written them. But this poem was transcribed straight from a few jotted lines in my notebook. :) Hope it's okay.