Matt O'Donnell

Matt O'Donnell


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The Close of the Age

Written By: Matt O'Donnell

It isn't long before we find out what those horns are blowing for.
It is the strangest sound; it shakess tiles off the rooves,
it makes the ground rise and fall.
But it's not so string after all,
we've heard these sounds a thousand times
in dreams we can't recall.

And though the moon is small and thunders through the night like a cannonball,
there are these tiny plumes of flame above the hemlocks
they consume they don't destroy
they're either fireflies or asteroids;
heralds or the vanguard of a dark and vengeful void

It's such a slow and wearying disease;
it slowly brings us to our knees,
yeah, times are tough in these latter days,
but I am not afraid to face the close of the age.

Stardust falls like snow; it piles up in drifts along the road
and makes it hard to breathe on our endless journey west;
we are free but dispossessed;
We have no goals or ambitions left
except to reach the shore and to watch like men
as the final night descends.

It's such a strange and withering disease;
it drains and dries us by degrees.
But we've made our peace with these latter days
at least we'll live to gaze upon the close of the age.

There were things we might have tried, if we'd only had more time;
and there were things we surely would have done, if only we'd known.
Maybe there's still something left, that I could manage by myself
it's a little late, I suppose...
but, hey, it's worth a try, you never know.
Should I sacrifice my final hours?
Or should I just let it go?

Yeah, times are tough in these latter days,
but I take some comfort in a phrase
I must have heard someplace,
"Lo, I am with you always, even to the close of the age."