The hooded figure waits

A hooded black robe to the ground Standing looking without a sound Whose turn is it in their final fall Waiting potently for their last call Do you see the signs in the sky written Or a scripture that was at home driven I walk towards the setting sun And can’t fail to see a world undone Do I slip wanting truth known Or does it matter I hear you groan Wake up the world before it’s late Remember the hooded figure waits. © Paul Warren Poetry