There is a tangled
distance,
north of reason,
south of rhyme.
And between is a question,
a terrible,
brilliant moment.
Man-made sun, destroyer of all,
last of a dying genius.
More than death--madness.
No heal for the divide.
Bridges crumble,
Flames consume,
and none see eye to eye.
When spears rattle
and monkeys scream
a war cry,
dissonance
across a burning sky.
The little ones cling to the rocks,
weep among the dying trees,
the poison water,
and hope that somewhere,
someone
can hear.