Iconoclast
The dusky dawn has come at last,
and what has gone has long since passed,
the game is done, the die is cast,
the sun is rising all too fast.
The scope is both minute and vast,
and most of us are left aghast,
eardrums ruptured by the blast,
black and red in stark contrast.
Although sweet hope is held steadfast,
the parody has been unmasked,
the gold, it seems, was only brass,
as dreams slip through the hourglass.
In silence, watch the storm amass,
reject the vile iconoclast,
this too, we're told, shall also pass,
while we stay mired in morass.
©Danielle White
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