Friday, September 30, 2016

Harvest, 2016

Harvest, 2016


A man reaps what he has sown,
the bitter seed yields bitter fruit.
What have we Boomers sown
for tomorrow's children to reap?

Strange images flood the mind, poor
disconnected things, strands of thought,
images, fantoms raised by fear
and memories of horrors lived,
the warning of sages
or prophets mad raving.

Politicians lies are heavy grapes,
clustered tight, ripe for harvest,
the wine our grandchildren shall feast.

The mob grows restless, they know their hour is near.
In their hearts dwells Fear, yet harder they grasp
that which draws doom upon their heads.
Why do they not see? What clouds their vision?
What stops their eyes, what empties their minds
(or, worse, fills it with redundant rubbish)?

I fear the mob in their fear
will choose a monster or a madman as a Messiah.
It happened before, why not again?
Why do we look aside from the menace that marches?

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