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 © John Blake | Year Posted 2021
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