Armageddon Days

Spirograph desert cities turn every geometric cheek
Against the dusty affections of a dying spider's creek
As the rumpled chino desert waits for its creases to be raised
By the hot steaming earthquakes of armageddon days

The ground takes a shadow from a plane below the sun
And lays it in the scar of what a distant sea has done
As the warm pipe-smoke mountains harbor both the blues and grays
Cleaving lakes with the bayonets of armageddon days

Any blue-vein road could one day disappear
Into the ankle of a mountain should one choose to appear
And where there's sand there's mud
just as where there's hope there's haze
And always, it's the towers of armageddon days

Boats die on the water, forever linked at seam
With their own sterile reflections, and the brief light in between
And lakes, like puzzle pieces thrown off in a rage
Frame all of the fields of armageddon days

The smallest trail a wanted man can leave is flight away on stilts
Along the line where the mountains must give way to the quilts
That are made of crops, and salt flats, and dust bowl fields raised
To the holding tank of purgatory's armageddon days

So if a star can be evil and a cloud can be a sieve
Then couldn't time, being distance, change the very way we live?
And if Satan finally loses on revelation's final page
Then why is everyone so afraid of armageddon days?