All the world is scrambling,

Picking up pieces of itself as though

Hit by a freight train.

Empires imploding, nature running a fever,

The love and trust of many

Growing cold.

The panacea of distractions,

If only to turn the mind off briefly,

Only do so much when

Everything else burns to ash.

–

Those not living in fear for being different,

For having the nerve to exist,

Are probably paying in life savings 

For breathing at the wrong moment.

Maybe awaiting a hurricane

Or ghouls with guns

To further erode life’s fragile foundations.

All of this and more

Brought in part by

Conquest, war, pestilence and death.

–

In any case,

Time marches forward.

A smattering of polycrises forcing

One and all

To make difficult decisions for tomorrow.

Knowing not what it brings.

Between heavy sighs and restless nights,

All making a choice, however heavy,

To survive another day.

Even if it means just existing.

–

I sit in the apricity of a winter sun,

My dog carelessly crunching on acorns

While I write my intentions for

The next sun cycle.

The night is relatively quiet,

Lulled by evening hustle bustle.

The threat of the shrouding dark cloud,

Darkness falling,

Juxtaposed by quiet sunlit contentment

And the fervor of daily life.

–

An unspoken understanding

Underlies all

Between the jubilation and the solitude.

Distrust between men,

Panicked fears of revelation,

And desires to live more fully in moments

All tie down to

The resolve to survive.

A primal instinct to weave through the

Trappings of unrest and complacency.

–

That, at least for now, is my resolution,

As this grand ship takes her plunge.