Poem at the End of the World

The poem at the end of the world is burned
burned in the fires of war
in the ovens of camps
stinking smoke filled chimneys
staining the low grey skies of a world that no longer matters
that no longer cares
that no longer sees
that no longer loves
burned in the blackened flesh of unborn children
burned into the soulless eyes of those who wander
wander from one polluted river, stream, ocean to another
mad with a thirst that can never be slaked.

The poem at the end of the world is buried
buried in the graves of the dead
buried beneath piles of bones that litter a desolate land
buried in mud and death filled trenches
buried in collapsed buildings piles of rubble that smoke with undead fire
buried beneath spent hope and lost dreams.

The poem at the end of the world is whipped
whipped by the flail of centuries
centuries of hunger pain torment repression slavery captivity
whipped by a win that scours the streets of abandoned towns cities
whipped by the masters of finance who never have enough
in whose dead eyes are reflected the drones guns bombs ships armies
robot soldiers that march
march over a land lying defeated subjected beneath heavy metal boots.

The poem at the end of the world is lost
lost by cynics hipsters fashionistas politicians consumers consuming all
consuming the bright glittering hallucination of money power falsebeauty pornsex
clawing their way down
down into an earth that can no longer comfort them
can no longer receive them.