Joshua Willson Creative Commons

Chaotic winds, a stolen morrow
Left on brink, the edge of sorrow

What have we left here inherit,
Lands of dead with little merit?

We are stranded, can’t you see?
The fires of seventy-year blasphemy

It isn’t natural what we’ve done
Borrowing fire from sleeping sun

A Promethean promise too good to pass
As we waste away the future’s past

The clock is ticking, can’t you hear? 
Tomorrow’s drawing ever near

A second to midnight, one final beat…
As we ignore the blast, unholy heat

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