So… I was really into poetry in college, as I’m sure many of
you were/are (I’ll have to tell you about the depressing poetry contests,
sometimes) but I hadn’t written in years. As Mark Twain said, “Contentment does
not lend itself well to verse.”
Then… I kind of went through a super stressful time lately,
and my first poems in years suddenly fall out of my fingers. And, since you’re
a captive audience, I’m subjecting you to them.
000
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Nero
fiddled while Rome burned
But
no one thought to ask
If
it was he who struck the match
If
the slide of bow across strings
Was
a mock of the city he’d felled
Without
an army at his back
A
celebratory dance
For
the destruction he’d conjured
Or
if he saw the flames
Only
when others did
Tasted
death as it was carried on the wind
And
reached for the fiddle
So
he could spend his final moments
In
song
000
Somewhere, the world is ending
There may be warning signs
Arguments in the night
Whispers of disappearing money
The slow fading of the light in their eyes
But that final morning
Always keeps its silences
Never admitting
That this will be the last moment
Before your own private apocalypse
There will be no time to mourn
No companion with you in the bunker
Only blue skies
That seem a thousand miles away
And the memories of a world
That lies shattered at your feet.
