Excerpts from “Apocalypse”

How can I know a time beyond this?
You haven’t reminded me of anything else,
not the radiant summer’s cracking dawn
nor the turbid freeze of winter’s dusk—
just your eyes, pearly white like my mother’s necklace,
the one she wore for the cocktail party;
a fortnight’s blurry reminiscence shadows
stirring secrets of drunken delight.
You kissed me and told of requited love,
enamored at the sight, your touch and lips,
cherry red with hints of rouge.
You told me to come to bed with you,
but I declined.
That was a long night.

You ask of repentance, 
and I can only say
why?
For the fallen tree knows no sound
in the wake of an empty forest
and I sit, alone,
unreal in my wonder as I gaze
to the string of pearls upon my desk
and think of your eyes,
such sweet eyes, 
and wish I 
could take back 
my words, my actions—
my refusal and hesitancy mark 
an early death for me.

Jacob Martzaklis

Jacob Martzaklis is currently a junior at Kent State University majoring in English and minoring in Creative Writing. He enjoys writing poetry, reading, and spending time with family. At home, he has two dogs and fourteen chickens.