On bare arms

 

That clock,

it’s ticking down.

A colossal countdown.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

It inches across continents,

leaps across chasms, it itches

under the skin of bare arms.

Pushing the hairs,

to stand up straight.

To...

Attention!

 

Now march.

 

LEFT.

RIGHT.

LEFT. RIGHT.

BEAR ARMS.

FIRE.

 

War looms under distant clouds,

getting closer by the hour.

Instances of hatred become

raging flames licking the souring sky.

 

Are we already too late?

Sleepwalking into a nightmare fate.

 

They said it wouldn’t happen,

we were too far advanced,

but they also said the great war,

was the war to end them all.

Yet still the sequel came along

bigger and badder than the one before.

Hollywood always wants more.

 

A match is struck, the fuse is lit,

the shit is flying through the air,

and the president has the floor,

fanning the flames. Pockets brimming

with blood money payments.

 

They said that we would

accept our differences,

but now we punish and distance

ourselves from any

that are not imitating us.

 

And the factories are transformed,

no longer creating goods,

instead mass-producing war,

as the rockets stack up high over head,

and the tills cry from the strain.

 

THUD THUD THUD

 

The sound of boots on broken backs,

the squelch of mud and a world gone mad.

The rumble of thunder, here come the tanks.

Now the air is aflame, let unleash the hounds.

 

Irrational.

It’s international.

Arms aloft. Alarms go off.

End time bombs fall

in slow-motion

staccato rhythm.

 

BOOM

 

Humanity crumbles

and we all

 

Blink out.

 

The money burns, the oil fields

soaked in clouds of smoke,

The factories just ground down stones.

The Hollywood sign falls,

crushing presidential bones under

rubble cathedral, surrounded

by headstones of the dead.

Standing straight like the hairs on bare arms.

 

And the earth cries, for the loss,

scars left upon her skin.

 

And the clock finally stops ticking.