Writer’s Apocalypse

Where have those times gone when words mattered.
Every dramatic line, from the romantic trust to the vengeful betrayals,
Every poetic dream, now it all just seems shattered.
Lost are the sounds of musicals and those sonnets, ballads and the brave tales.

These are times I call a writer’s apocalypse..
Where juries around the world find the writers guilty,
In a senseless war of the tackling lips.
The romance is not love anymore it’s just the men being filthy.

Seekers of truth are drowning in the mud of black waters.
And there are no sons of soldiers writing for the king’s daughters.
In a time so unfortunate I see the soils sinking down deeper into the earth,
While all the liars and cons take the crown.

With so much chaos I just lower my head.
All I feel are tears in my eyes this pain I need to shed.
Then I feel this hand on my shoulder,
I look up and see her smiling face, a face with which I want to grow old.

In that moment I find my ultimate power.
Which makes me challenge the writer’s apocalypse to until my very last hour.
The charm in her laughter and the spell of her eyes.
I feel are my greatest weapons against those wordless cries.

My sword is the calm and the peace I feel with her in the moment.
And my Armour is her love.

With here by my side I can take on the drought of words,
I feel I could even change the course of the southern flying birds.

The souls of every fearful writer I know is possessed and damaged.
But with her as my way of words, I am here to free thoughts which are imprisoned and caged.

With her by my side, I will never let an end fall upon a story or a narration.
As She is…

My savior and my salvation.

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