Subtle unease floats in the breeze,
of my sub cranial unconsciousness.
A willow waves in the still of night,
I lurk in the shadows, full of fright.
For the edge of life is upon us.
The smell of the air, the curl of your hair,
all signs pointing to the Apocalypse.
A certain unease, held in the crease,
of our collective cognitive countenance.
Tells us that we're scared.
A persistent unease, borne on the grease,
of ten million slippery thoughts.
A fear of the night and its alter almighty,
whose wrath is not taken lightly.
The transformation is at hand.
Do not release your sinking unease,
or launch an epidemic of melancholy.
A path of destruction deep and wide,
revealing the greatest human folly.
Fear is our enemy and life our love.
I'd put the latter up above,
and ease out of that unease.
Put all that superstition behind me,
and float my balloon in the breeze.
Putting my mind at ease.
Photo Richard Galosy ©2006
Read War's End, the Novel
Copyright 2006 © Ronald W. Hull