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So where is the apocalypse, Promised to us by the ancient young? In distant years their fearful poems Killed us in verse made into song, Spiralled in vinyl and on tape, We were supposed to carry it In our hearts and wait out the night For second sunrises and tears, Beginning the new suffering, Or as a blight bursted from shell, With echoes of the Pestilence, Rupturing complacency to hell, And above all a resonance, A resonance, sweet only to their ears, Of prophets’ voices proven right. What will it be? And when? And how? Oh never you concern yourself, You haven’t missed it yet. It seems Apocalypse will be along In not too many days from now.

Copyright © | Year Posted 2021

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