We are slouching insolently
Not towards redemption
No longed for resurrection
Of the good times
Of the spirit of goodness
No creative burst
But instead loose hipped
And hunched shouldered
We are moving in a funeral
March towards the final
Dot and tittle
The bookend big bang
The disaster universal
Not contained:
We are but brittle
Grabbing at sand
In the furnace
And heading towards
The grinder, both
Great and little.
The stress fractures
Are showing, but
Who knows where they
Will finally snap.
The sun is getting hotter
In both north and south
Of the global map.
And me, for all my
Resolution and my
Imposed solitude
Cannot muster up
The resistance
Nor stop the destruction
Being born:
We are not slouching
Towards Bethlehem
And nothing but Death
Is rising with each
And every broken morn.
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We seem to be going back in time these days…to an aristocratic nation.
I am sad to say I agree with you. I’m holding on in there, and I see you are too. There must be a poem in the concept of ‘holding the line’….