Waiting for the End of the World

It should happen any day now—
The insanity mounts and the powder keg sits
Uncomfortably close to the fire.
This isn't a biblical sort of ending,
All neat and showy, with ample seating
For latecomers in the mezzanine;
But a crinkly-crumbly breaking apart
Without a chorus and violins
Supplying celestial aural shimmers,
Nor tenebrous smoke-scrims parting on cue.
It's messy and irregular, unfair in the sense
That not everyone is damned or saved
At once in a shower of lightning bolts.
It's mostly a manifestation of gripes,
Hellbent emotions nurtured in secret:
Disappointment, anger, aimless urges,
Unwillingness to look beyond one's shell,
Consternation and selfishness,
All bundled together, then dipped in bile
And dredged in arsenic sprinkles and dung.
We're victims of our own medicine,
Individualism in the extreme;
Solipsism and contrary egos
Weigh crushingly on our fragile sphere,
And so
The crust must crack beneath our feet—
Encased, as they are, in lead-soled boots—
And we'll sink dismally to our deaths,
Buried alive in an ant lion's tomb,
A sandy grave we made ourselves by
Digging it grain by grain by grain.

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Waiting for the End of the World