Sanity Slipping

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.