We steam clean our rage until what was once human becomes tepid

We are not the only ones who are frail

Yet we proceed as if none matter more

Cataclysms hail towards the times

We have created for ourselves.

I’ll meet you in the fire.

I’ll dive into the flood.

I’ll dig you space in the avalanche.

I’ll save your pint of this blood.

– – –

Villages where walls crumble and nature reclaims her place supreme

We made a mess and refuse to wipe it clean

But what remains remains to be seen

Though not the same as before

We are seeing the power of the invisible

Drawn to the ancients

Pushed from the present

Saved from the past

Disregarding the torment.

– – –

We beat the drum.

We holler at the wind.

We fight the rising tide.

What else can we do?

Check the deep for survivors

Waiting for their absence to matter

I’ll sing to you if you’ll sing to me the song of ideals

A lullaby to lull us to sleep, perchance to dream the dream of

The future, an opalescent mist on the horizon of hope.


Comments

Song of the Times — 3 Comments

  1. All this apocalypse stuff is just as much in our heads as it is in the newscasts. That’s why I wish we’d stop obsessing about what could/is happen and start obsessing about coming together to change it.

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