An original poem.
⁓The Voice before the Void
“What Manner of Cataclysm? How Much Terror?”
The Voice before the Void
What manner of cataclysm will render
Moot our thoughts, our moods, our lives?
How much terror will we suffer in our deaths?
Will we be buried in hot ash, baked alive?
Will we drown in foreign seas flooding what once were our home lands?
Will the leaders round us up and butcher us? Will the masses set upon us and behead us?
Will we clutch our chests and collapse to the pavement?
Will we be crushed as fast metal crunches around us?
Or, will we know the quiet catastrophe:
In bed, in sickness, love gathered round,
Hoping they don’t see in our eyes reflected what we see?
What manner of cataclysm? How much terror?
(It is these thoughts on death that keep me awake all night, walking the town, staring at the river, standing in the cemetery, climbing back-stairs, talking to friends. And when the friends, less possessed by death than I, can stay awake no longer, I talk to the ghosts who blow across the North Dakota plain.)