and now?

       Just followed "Unearthed" @UE

"Greenpeace‘s investigative journalism"

about the brittle world of you and me.

and now?

romantic poetics is dead for me,

and, unless we sort this, so are we.

how can I write as a candle bright,

when it is smoking, snuffed?

how can it be right

to dream of the "halcyon days",

the "golden uplands", the "salad days"?

when the end creeps nearer, and nearer,

and @UE spells it out for you and me;

and we try (yes, we do try) but to no avail,

so we vesiculate in death’s travail.

the war poets wrote of the insanity of war,

but they fought it, for

some would survive to read their words;

but who will read my liturgy of dirge?

for as far as i can see

this is going to be the end of me,

and you, and all but a few

organisms that will ride the evolutionary rollercoaster,

and then ... 

            well that does not matter 

to you and me,

for we will have ceased to be.

so how can i write like the romantic poets?

but then again,

why should i write like a prophet of doom?

when the words rattle in my mind, i owe it

to them alone, to lay them gently down upon the page,

as rigid as dried tears curling on the burning parchment 
the lemon tears of mother beast
hovering over her unmoving child, 

in a world of "woe is me".

it just does not do it! does it?

these words, they don’t, do they?

"no more glad confident mornings again".

the words decompose the orbit 
of yin and yang,
decompose into an obituary for words. 

what devil’s conundrum is this?