Past Tense Apocalypse
You don’t need a weatherman… BD
Anxious people
lift their eyes,
scan the skies
predicting rain,
muttering of
impending storms,
frazzled by anticipation,
paralyzed by gloom,
fearing a deluge
of cascading doom.
Doesn’t matter.
It is already raining.
Rivers rapidly rise.
Fundament disappears.
The landscape lies
puddled with fears.
They refuse to see
how wet they are,
how immersed in loss.
Broken umbrellas flap
flaccid everywhere.
The fractured individual.
The smothering State.
Symbiotic misery.
A slow soaking
of ignored despair.
No more comforting
agreed upon fables.
History is a dream.
Hope has been plucked.
Only the flood knows
this drowning flow,
where it will go,
this current of
contemporary fate.
The final islands soon
slip beneath its waters.
Too late for love.
Too late for hate.
