Armageddon

And now we've crossed over the line
that defines true madness,
a madness melted into a dream
sleep cannot correct.

A helmet instead of teased hair
and, instead of silk,
wet weight of sweaty battle fatigues;
Breathing smoke for air.

Not milk drunk from paper cartons.
It's our own red blood,
a portion of which, set aside,
we retain for food.

Wind blows through houses now empty.
Where once we stood,
stand still or still stands is the question,
a resentful mood.

No one expects to grow old.
We are far too near
the sources that deal in mass death.
What we taste is fear
and no ready power to help us.

Setting truth aside,
we can say our beginning was good,
but no white lie
can ever cover over the chasm
between “is” and “should.”