Beautiful Apocalypse

And if the old oak in the yard
should never again blossom life
and cede its soil for a bed of death--
if the sea shone, mirror-like
without hint of a ripple;
its tide lost in the breath of a burgundy dawn.
If the sun should collapse in the zenith sky
and spew fiery rains of indignation,
or if the rosebuds lost forever,
their ambition to bloom
and grew inclined to ignore spring's whispers.
If the midnight sky, with its thousand points of light
turned aphotic, as it swallowed the moon;
if the Earth dared to shed its chimera of calm,
opened up and belched hell to her surface
and creation was raised to the heavens
and all things were made to face truth,
standing amidst the rubble, unscathed,
is love-- impervious love.