Four Minutes To Midnight

FOUR MINUTES TO MIDNIGHT

The midnight hour tolls from behind the curtain on the global stage,
Hiding sussurant whispers that have managed to escape the cage.
Traditions have been Frankenstein'ed so no skeptics can deny
The need for introspection, or the pain of wondering why.

Hopefully the palace guard will decay into grave-land dust,
Leaving behind an infrastructure collapsing into orange rust.
When the dawn of revolution colors horizons far and wide,
The clouds will provide a backdrop when hawks and doves collide.

The common man wraps himself in debt, worry and fears
While drug cartels and rich infidels throw sand into the gears
Hoping to knock Western society completely off the rails
So that their own ideas of what should be will triumph when ours fails.

The rot that fills the abscesses of madness rides as herald to the storm,
Of uncertain future failings now that black clouds have begun to form.
The desiccation of our most human and our nation's cherished ideals
Feeds their own usurpation as fear-mongering debate congeals.

Nothing left but scavengers, ripping flesh from the carcass-ed beast,
Raptors and hyenas slinking westward from the fabled East.
And we, the faithful few, will never accept what assails our eyes:
The teeming mass of vermin, War's maggots grown to godly size.

When dust has blown and webs are spun, when Man has been put to rest,
And ideology has died from the fight to determine whose is best,
When the human race has run its race, come to the end of its course,
There will be nobody left to feel a shadow of bitter remorse

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This poem appeared in "Breathing for Clouds" available from Big Table Publishing.

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©2015 Christopher Reilley

 
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