Apocalypso

The purple mountains grumble, prairies quaver,
and blemishes begin to mar the sun
as sovereign states now fallen out of favor
with Yahweh are convincingly undone

by hordes of uninvited refugees
from countries bordering tectonic plates
that grind like buzz saws. Borne on every breeze,
a plague that spreads far wider than the gates

of Hell, and this is but an adumbration
of what is yet to come: a cosmic suction
more powerful than any first-world nation
shall usher in the ultimate destruction

of everything that's counted dear. The Nile
is clogged with bloated corpses and debris
from cities deep in Africa. An isle
is sinking in the Caribbean Sea,

which spells the end of reggae.  Oh, if Dante,
not John had written the Apocalypse,
perhaps there'd be a Harry Belafonte
to guide us through the last bad acid-trips.

C.B. Anderson

If you have any thoughts on this poem, C. B. Anderson would be pleased to hear them.