This Is It
Dropping matches in the midst of a forest burning
Conflagrations sprout like viruses of thought
Glimpses are caught at the height at the high
Point of tragic departure there is no returning
Someone poses as imminent with a telling character flaw
Flaunting reality with dirty tools like power and money
There is really not much sanity as if that explains it
No redemption from this cancer masquerading as The Law
Skulls get fractured, fractures are ground to dust
The Western sun set so long ago
What is not true, yet May be so
Poignantly sad to construe
Tragic scenes pollute the screens
Tattooed ice screaming eyes on fire
See their pockets picked and linings ripped
Something's tipped the scales weighed with rusted writ
The worst is yet to come and this is it
Poetry by Chaucer Whethers
Written on 2026-09-25 at 14:38
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