It could be the end
Of the world; it could be
Her not listening to my last word,
The epiphany. Time holds still.
The breeze, ever so subtle, surrounds
The cocoon, dissipating,
Disintegrating into tiniest sapphires.
I stoop, gather the glittering shards with my palms
To preserve them would be futile.
I feel the numbing cold, how soon
Would it be that she is beyond
My revelations, how soon
I realize I am no God.