A Psychoanalysis of the End of the World, part 3

3. Impending apocalypse

She spins gracefully over the melted sea storms.

Massive fresh whirlpools of
violent white and black hair.
Pupils contract to
the size of neurons
Giant sickly green irises absorb the Sky,
emitting a dull yellow shadow cast
over the ocean surrounding her.

Cages rise from the sea like
cargo ships bursting from the depths,
as if they encaged themselves for centuries
climbing to the surface
gasping for decreased pressure.

Rusted metal friction
echoes for miles upon miles

as she dances about them,
flailing her arms with the most indecisive directions
averting the lightning striking each cage.

The cages shed their rust as
fireworks spill from their bars,
at every strike,
her voice like the sound of a Himalayan avalanche –

it pounds the waves as
they struggle
for calm, but cannot stop.

Even still her dance provokes them.

As the waves stretch the material of her dress
as the whirls overtake a wider space, they catch
on the small specks of spiked rust on the cages,
still revolving unanimously
in painful unison with her dance.

She is pinned but does not stop as her dress shreds and rips away,
revealing millions –
souls who found new bodies.
She occupies them.

Her hair knots around the oxidizing metal bars
forcing her head into

the rhythm of their revolution

until she jolts herself hard,
her hair then attached to the bars like
ribbons floating gracefully in the wind.

As their motion is manipulated by a tired ocean,
her head splotched with open lesions.

The ocean tattoos her with
its insensitive temperatures
piercing into each pore,
so sensitive to the ocean salt,
but dances more rigorously, but
now to desperately keep warm.

The ocean rises around her,
covering her body with its
antigravity anguish,
and she flails her arms
tries to push away the storm
but only serves to strengthen it.

She screams like the raven
making the cages shatter and
fall into the waves.

The pieces circle her,
her
arms
legs
chest
face
back

jaundicing the sea.