The Day Descending into Doubt by Debra Webb Roberts

I am not a silent poet

*for the clinic shootings*
..
Culture in a petri dish
mouldering, gray
..
Civility in slow decline
rose pink innocence
sallows, hardens
..
The end of days
grows long in the tooth
– if only, toothless
..
Tassles for graduated
seclusion, excels at Nothing
..
Devolution of good, the bearded ones
dividing lots, split heirs of rhetoric
..
Find the teacher & the prophet
~ lip-syncing rote confessionals
rehearsed, still unwise
..
Foresight with cataracts
no envisioning benefit of Age
or ageless Perfection –
aspiration expires, robs breath
..
Wicked’s inspiration found at ignoble ends,
more telling than rants, than scripts of
madmen’s manifestos malformed,
secluded years & robbing
..
A final word, one final act
submitting to madness
..
Lunatics’ fatal fringe
elements untying cords
watch as the world unravels

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