The End of the World

It’s not the end of the world, my friends,

This fraying at the seams.

It’s not the end, nor doth portend

The end, by any means.

It’s not the end of the world.  Sure,

They’re unraveling our threads,

But we aren’t cowering to their power. 

We aren’t playing dead.

It’s not the end, when men pretend

To power they don’t have,

And grab and grate, ingratiate

Themselves, till all will serve

Or nod at power, for this dim hour,

Twilight, idols strong,

Till night may bring our darkest hour,

The fight, twixt Right and Wrong.

But day will come, when all is done,

This refuse swept away,

And rosy dawn will warm our spawn,

While children, frolic, play,

And we will go about our business,

Speaking, laughing, free,

For, lives upended, we defended

Our democracy.

For a reminder of what role the US has, in the not so distant past, played in this world, read The World Police. For another poem fearing Apocalypse, written close to the time of the Ukraine invasion, as the stock market sagged and the Covid Variant Omicron was at the door, read Chicken Little. For a poem written as Covid approached, full of malice and fear and Medieval imagery, read Horsemen.