Vista of a Mad World

The shadows of the sun, turn the clouds to antique gold. Dripping with silver linings, that they will call the sunset. The climbing moon awaits its turn, to light the darkness. With twilight comes the circadian dance of the evening. The spirits of minstrels conduct their silent symphonies. Youth laughs at the devil, ignoring the approaching void. Protesters fill the streets, marching with their blank signs. The people sit under the holy trees, that provide no shade. The eagles make nests, in the ruins of the old skyscrapers. The sounds of suffering, echo the time of the great dying. The bells of St. Francis, call out the names of the old ones. Lightning illumines the unfinished towers, built to heaven. Robot disciples with their iron boots, guard the cathedrals. The crowds countdown the minutes, to the next end of time. The flags of nations fly tattered, over the scorched badlands. The gods congregate and ask themselves, now whose image?