07 Nov 2016 – Sonnet
Doomsday doesn’t dress in graphite garments,
favors greens and yellows – famine, fever.
Mocks treaties, disregards disarmament;
never rides first-class, incites believers
passing out their pamphlets on the corners.
You’ve always dressed your devils up in red,
titrated grief by proxy, hired mourners,
but Doomsday? Nah – just one more sucker dead.
You think to push your Doomsday off forever?
Our ruin comes, we each receive a taste,
and whether one’s caught up in larger terrors,
or all alone, our plans are still erased.
The line moves forward, sweeping you along,
but you can’t see its end in all this throng.