Apocalyptic poems, posted every m-f.

the big whimper

the world does not end in mushroom cloud
or flood, or fire

it ends in bleached wheat, and outsourced manufacturing
a blinking out of the collective dream,
global erosion of skills

but if you were to search hard enough,
for some great cataclysm
you would of course find it

the one tribulation we could not face –
that of disappointment

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