doom can approach languidly
or like a scythe to the stars;
you may not even see it; you might
not even have any idea it will happen;
innocently wandering in soft, alien
dreams, in provincial landscapes,
in hopes skillfully manicured, in the
kool-aid sunrise; and then—head to the
cement, glass in your arm, engine pilloried
by hope, the ultimate bludgeoning instrument.

this is the way you meet the end;
with a great report card; infants praising
you, an annual bonus; the new house
and young love on the horizon; just then
you get buried in cement; angels singing,
heaven parting and gold emblems of freedom
unveiled; a peace found among your relatives,
a winning lotto ticket on the dresser; this is
the way time stops; the hammer meeting
the falcon, the scythe in the ravine of honey,
a cloak becoming an anvil and the tiny
chocolate candies melting into the sunrise as
all you once wanted to achieve suddenly disperses
like a magician’s trick before a sea of gullible faces.