an apocalypse prophesied
how long have the poets been singing of our demise?
yet we've turned deaf to their words, blind to the signs
forgotten the Moerae and their all-seeing Orb

you want a portent?
how about man, a train wreck spiraling toward disaster
metal vertebrae snapped from civilization's twisted spine
dangling above a street-void, where silence sits at the tables of a Parisian cafe
and waits patiently to be served

and angels, or are they Greek goddesses? hover
above the peaked landscape of city roof-tops
Clotho whisper-speaks that her thread's run thin
while the hands of Atropos, like tombstones, whet knives
as cold as her bird-corpse heart
counting 734 days on the bleeding scalps of sunsets
Lachesis spins the severed skull of Time in her palm, like a goblet
where the faces of mortals pool like ambrosia
that heady melange of sorrows she brewed to drown her own

when did we leave the tracks behind?
what of humanity, now a cancer forever multiplying upon Gaia's battered flesh
"where are we (going)?" carved like frown lines on society's withered face
wandering among the beings-gone, where chaos reigns from the throne of Olympus
and brandishes its earthbound-scepter

now is the time to remember, to listen, to see
follow moon-bright words and where they lead us
before the path turns to dis-astra, the dust of maligned stars settling on our shoulders
destiny no more than a glimpse of gray in the gleaming eye of Fates