“This is how the world ends.”
Elliot said,
“Not with a bang,
but a whimper.”
No fire,
no screaming,
no terror.
All our atom bombs
kept safely under
lock and key.
Our borders
bursting at their
frayed seams.
Our troops
half-trained
for nothing.
All here
is at ease.
Indeed, ease
is what did
the corrupting.
No more
growing,
building,
running,
hunting—
Just men,
women,
children
hunching,
tapping abstractions
clutching for
something.
Survival-
an instinct
lost long ago,
replaced by elation,
occupation
and though
few do possess
this primordial drive
they’ve left the bereft
to wither
and die.
From our high towers
we listen,
us few who
choose life
as the wide world
starts to whimper-
approaching
it’s time.
pm poetry 