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Poem

Sanity Slipping
          by Odin Roark

For today,
There is but a subliminal haze.

Soon…

They’ll realize spring as summer,
An impatient today
Rapidly becoming tomorrow’s scorched yesterday.

They’ll remind themselves
Of gardens once blooming,
Now dust bowls of wind-driven regret,
Shrouding what’s left
Behind nature’s pawn shop windows.

Then…

They’ll send afloat their final thoughts
As ghostwriters waiting,
Strike their polished keyboards,
Creating another tome,
Perpetuating another unswerving pattern of failure.

They’ll ponder the dark collecting quickly,
As their rising flotsam of denial
Hitches up with commerce trade winds aplenty,
Eager to satisfy more covetous progress
Waiting amongst the many heads-in-clouds.

They’ll spend their final hours
Watching their neighboring countries 
Bloviate established ritual chameleon-greed 
As power’s gluttony exhausts  
The remaining rations for survival.

Finally

Beneath ashen density,
Remaining embers will radiate
What’s left of fate’s losing battle,
Revealing demonic faces parading angelic wings,
Readying their blind eyes
For the final act of 
Sanity slipping.

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