Rapture

In a flat above a city street
Where silence danced with dust and heat
He wrote with hands both worn and torn
A wannabe author frayed, alone, forlorn.

His bills are piled high, his dreams are torn
The world outside refuses to let him in
Yet still he scrawls with trembling might
Through endless days and darker nights.

A tale was born of blood and flame
Of whispered truth no tongue could name
It was death, inked with dread
A beast he pulled from thoughts long dead.

The monster rose in trembling text
With claws of fate and eyes perplexed
It knew no bounds, no moral frame
A godless thing without a name.

The pages breathed, the world took note
The book devoured all doubt he wrote
A sudden star, the world amazed
They read, they wept, they set it praised.

Across all lands, the Rapture flew
A sacred curse the masses knew
Its twisted lore, its shadowed bliss
A prophecy none could dismiss.

And then the sky began to crack
As fiction’s beast stepped through the black
It walked in storms, it fed on fear
Its every breath the end drew near.

The author watched his words ignite
The world consumed by what he’d write
No joy, no pride, just cold despair
To birth the doom that filled the air.

"He is my monster, I am his Frankenstein"
Our poor abandoned author cries
Now cities burn, and oceans boil
And gods retreat beneath the soil
His pen, now still, his eyes alight
He dreamed of stars, but birthed the night.

In final breath, he whispers low,
“One line too far, one tale to show.”
A book, a curse, a cruel delight
The end began the day he'd write...

RAPTURE.