Angels During the Apocalypse

This poem of mine won an open mic competition :)

Angels During the Apocalypse

When the apocalypse ensues the angels wandering the streets will be pinned by their paper-white wings, every other father or son becoming an entomologist with no experience, mangled girls splayed out with disfigured identities due to displaced pins. 

When the apocalypse ensues the angels will be raped in vice captivity, every other father or son becoming a malevolent taxidermist using the hell between their legs to turn a breathing being into a stuffed vessel, glossy-eyed. 

When the apocalypse ensues the angels will be claimed as every other father or son’s daughter, and they will go rogue with the spirit of Joan of Arc that rests in the marrow of their bones, soon engulfed and scorched by sinner’s flame, not a glint of mercy in sight.  

When the apocalypse ensues you will not find me here. An angel and I will be hiding in a dark closet of a countryside house, making our arms each other’s cocoon as the men kick and bang through the house, guns in parched hands and workboots stampeding on hardwood floors. 

When the apocalypse ensues the angel and I will pray with no avail. With thirty silver coins cluttered at our feet, she’ll run her hands over my shoulder blades in the abyss of the closet. Her eyes will shine like church bells, stars falling from them like they did from the sky that day. 

When the apocalypse ensues, the angel and I will be left as two nameless corpses, hand in hand. Our last thoughts will be that maybe we dreamed too much, yearning for the stars when our feet could only belong to the land. 

- S. O.