What Will Become of Us?
Stealing into unexpected gloom,
Borne away in travesties of pain,
Dreaming of some providential gain,
Fractured in a fratricidal doom.
Dreaming into visions of the end,
Luridness to stay the very blood,
Prurience abounding in a flood,
As the fates unhappily descend.
Rumours of the wars to run us through,
Mournfulness to grieve the very core,
Rivalries we censure and abhor,
All the bitter travesty in view.
Gnawing at our hearts — the devil’s thorn,
Rendering a fallenness sublime,
All the battered wights of stricken time,
Promulgating wrath and bitter scorn.
Gossip of the foibles in our kin,
Sniping to arouse a cutting ire,
As the faults of humanness transpire,
Jaded by the deviltry within.
Aeons washing up in stricken form,
Jetsam of the enervating wheel,
Godliness with undercut appeal,
Carried in a sick, derisive storm.
Theatres of the tendency to hate,
Playing out in vitriolic wrath,
Awfulness the fetid aftermath,
Of the hellish grip from Sheol’s gate.
Speculation on the coming plague,
Fretfulness to wreck the very nerves!
As creation falteringly swerves,
Into stretches soporific vague.
What will now become of Adam’s race?
Perishing in labyrinthine fear,
With the heaven’s dolefulness austere,
With the saints descending to disgrace.
Gathering in company to grieve,
Speaking of the terrors in the sky,
Such a devolution to decry,
Hoping for a heaven-sent reprieve…
