West Of The Moon

West of the Moon is the unofficial, temporary meeting ground for the members of Christendom's Guild of the Cross and the Quill. Sadly West of the Moon won't be in our future permanent web URL because a number of other selfish people already registered all permutations of the URL years ago without even consulting me. For that they shall pay.

Wednesday, July 27, 2005

The End of the World

I wrote this poem at the end of last year, in sort of a hurry to get it in to Dr. Townsend. It was an extra credit for Astronomy and must have helped, since I got a B- for the class. The thing is, I like it and would like to know what else i could add on to it.

The End of the World
By Matthew B. Rose

The time it took was seven minutes
The time from start to end
None could know the end of time
was just around the bend.

Not all the people cared for things
that would save them from strife
Now their horrible apathy
will cost them their life.

It grew very large over time
slowly gaining space.
The silent beast made no sound
as it quickened its pace.
It grew very large, for a moment,
then began to expand rapidly
towards that place of life and blessing,
destroying all things quickly.

Here we did not see it start
when it did for reason's known
for it takes light seven minutes
to get from there to our zone.
Therefore, we went about our lives
not worrying about the future.
We spent our final minutes
living life like a creature,
our horrible habits, our daunting
vices shown like a star:
this was the group of men
who could not sense a car
coming down the road at speeds
of 60 miles or more,
for all we paid attention to
was the life we longed for
We cared not for the glories of love,
nor the worship of any such God
that would put a hamper on our life
Satan was our twin in the pod.
For this was our fate,
to be engulfed in a wave
of heat and light, and radiation
from which none were saved.
Our star itself exploded then,
when we were not looking.
The time was only seven minutes
before we started cooking.

Elizabeth Jones walked her dog
down the street of 4th and Main.
She looked at the different houses
and gave people looks of disdain,
for she had no blood love lost
over any of her common man.
They were nothing for her,
like liquid soup in a can.
She did not see them as equals,
she did not see them as friends
she merely saw them as obstacles
to achieving her own ends.
When the seven minutes was up
she would cry aloud
for her hate for all mankind
would give her a crowd
of angry, hot, and pushy neighbors
who shared her same beliefs.
They would be her only company
for eternity is not so brief.

The light and heat, radiation too,
expanded, engulfing the messenger
that small, hot and rocky mass
that never showed any danger.

Fr. Francis Prose, saint of men,
prayed for his mere soul,
and bowed before the altar.
Dipping his fingers in the bowel
he prepares for the high feast
of a lamb he cannot yet see,
of a Lord he will one day
worship for all eternity.
Here he cleanses his fingers and soul,
preparing for the greatest gift of all.
He gently turns to the congregation,
shifting the position of the pall.
His piety and love of all the good,
all that his God has made for him,
leads him to meet his master,
for now his soul is free from sin.

The giant spread across the space,
Morning Star is swallowed up
that inspiration of poets of old,
now drinks from an empty cup.

What none of these people knew
was that another power was at play.
For here was the work of the Lord
His glory manifests itself that day.
For this day of destruction and death
was ordained since the beginning.
This time of death that approached
was simply the suffering coming.

The pressure was too much for the star.
It could no longer hold it's power.
It expelled its strength, its energy,
in one oppressive final shower.
The seven minutes passed by quickly;
all who saw it knew its purpose.
Some who prayed were saved that day;
Others, who did not, never surfaced.

Miss Jones turned on the TV.
She sat on her favorite chair.
Her dog hopped onto her lap.
How on earth could she care?
The screen was blank, a black stare.
She paused 'fore pressing "Off"
She rose, but couldn't turn on the radio.
for then, she started to cough.

Fr. Prose looked down at the open book;
he stated quietly those holy words.
Then lifting the simple cup and his eyes,
he brought the prayers heavenward.
He had done the ultimate act of a man:
He had succeeded where others would fail
And as he set down that holy chalice,
all the temperatures all slipped off scale.

The world was engulfed in a wave,
unsurpassed in the history of time.
The ancient start of ours, older than us,
older than life, older than time,
could not contain the mass of its life.
our existence, our planet, wiped away
in the span of seconds. The holy of
God were saved; the rest were erased.

Such is the way of the end of man
For theirs is below heaven's Hosts,
yet higher than the beasts of the field.
Such is the way of these new ghosts.

For be it the irony of Adam, Job, and Christ
that all we have received from God strife.
For the Lord gave and took away, our of love.
The Creator is the one who removes life.

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