Robert Verdon, #142, End Times

growing specks on a white table

constellation of

the fatigued soul, the ageing empire,

swiftly punishing itself for its own

flabbiness, ensuring someone else gets in

the way, 

totters,

weary of its own crimes of self-permission

and in terror of

the tyranny of the just majority

in what it sees as an empty universe

without itself;

nothing that gave meaning

the powers of Zeus

the millions made

the millions dead

satisfies now,

the cornucopia dribbles

the eye of providence droops —

now the countless small hands must rule,

the beehive no longer needs a Queen;

the empire can bust civilisations

but only we can build them