The old men sit in marble halls musing over
hackneyed scripts of what to think and
how to do, and their calcified fingers clutch at
yellowed maps of empires long since drowned,
while seas rise like liquid glass around their
ankles, but still, they sprout the same stale creed:
dominion, border, ground, religion, ideology.

They speak in tongues tied to rust, and might, and coal as
keepers of a broken wheel who dress their fear as strength,
and while the planet gasps, they measure worth in war.

The calendar spins backward now, or has it even moved?
Each ancient throne, each tribal flag, each nationalistic jibe,
each god invoked for battle in this cycle from earth to hell,
returns like vomit to our mouths, as we can see the promised
future in an innocent child swallowed whole by pride.

This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
Not with a whimper but in a vinyl groove.

 

13/8/2025