I gaze upon a wracked, a shattered world
where ruin rampant runs among the lives
of men whose burdens, labors, toils wear
them thin and ragged, hopeless.
no light above, nor goal below to drive
them onward with a sense of purpose.
(and we) do struggle through the cold, dark night
before the long awaited eschaton.
I gaze upon a rose that drips to match
the sodden, dreary sky, its petals now
unfurling red as blood.
The heartbeat of
a dying world is loud indeed, more full
of noisome spectacle and gnashing teeth
than I could dare believe.
“Not made for this!”
it loudly cries; “A better world was I
and better could be still,” it mournful wails.
I gaze upon the hope of all, his form
now battered, bruised and crushed.
upon a twisted tree and bears the weight
of all our human scorn.
This death is death
of death—of burdens, ruin, hopelessness.
The earth unchained from groaning burdens sings;
unbrokenness has broken in, has brok-
en all despair.