Classic Tale (Poetry)

Prologue:

This is the land of what-used-to-be
this is the land of how-it-once-was
here in the ruins of terrible dreams
we scratch for reminders of precious things lost

Cut

The atmosphere’s thick with the reek of decay
hot the winds whisper of threat
blown from a furnace where fire demons play
their incendiary games of roulette

All colour has vanished — bled from the walls
tumbled from palaces raised
in frenzies of fighting for some godless cause
as greed added fuel to the blaze

The world’s larder raided — now deserts roll in
we can’t see for sand clogs up our eyes
or hear for the silence fast-gathering grim
we are crushed under vast empty skies

The cities have fallen, each dog’s had his day
loiters crazed with sheer hunger and dread
men howl their frustration with Hell still to pay
simple prayers for forgiveness unsaid

It’s too late — all too late says the man in the moon
just another tired movie churned over again
a big-budget-epic like some remake of Doom
adapted by bankers — it all ends the same ...

Cut

Epilogue:

This is the land of cannot-be-saved
this is the land of past-all-repair
the road to destruction with arrogance paved
we fiddle like Nero — pick over despair