She looks around her, behind her,
and in her future, wondering,
unbelieving, yet, there it is, apocalypse.
"How,” she thinks, "did it come to this?"

She sees, around the world, events
that eclipse the newborn thinking
from the falling reign of dropping planes,
binding hands, and reaping dead remains.

She hears weeping, and lifeless pleas,
reaching for the full moon's ethereal life,
wishing, seeking, and dying, in night’s
black tyranny, and poverty’s last rites.

She feels helpless, stunned and stunted,
religions reach stretches grisly fingers,
pointing and pontificating,
aggravating the useless hating.

Until, souls cry out for cessation, release
from intolerances and nonending strife,
life-felt pleas are drowned into pathetic piles
as we enter death’s defilement aisles

and discord smiles.

Erin Moen
9/19/02
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