Apocalypse

By Andrew R. Duckworth

I.

They gave life to a wild wind
Of toxic air drifting along the
City streets and knocking on doors.
And soon, new walls went up,
The pretty kind, the ornate kind,
The sort so disguised they don’t seem
Like walls at first.
They gave life to a wild wind
Of bitter breath and want of death.
When the walls came down,
A new world was born,
One of gray skies and lofty lies
Echoing through the avenues.
Tear it all down they say-
Tear it down and throw it away.

II.

I have the hands of a man
Who has never built with
Hammer and nail,
No rock hard skin on the palms.
There are calluses on my feet.
I’ve walked among green grass,
Concrete, and asphalt,
The rubble of what was
And the odd of what is.
I have walked away too many times,
Played the coward as booming voices
Shattered windows and limited choices
And I stood among the luke warm,
Looking on, staring at my palms.
When will I pick up the hammer
And the nails and build anew?

III.

So many turnstiles to walk through,
Controlled by what can’t be seen
If you’re looking where they direct
The eyes to watch.
The man to the side says
“Nothing to see here!”
Although he doesn’t know.
So compartmentalized even the voices
Through the speakers speak with
Hesitancy, tongues caught in a trap.
It’s a cave of flies and maggots
But they’ll convince you
That it is nature the way it was
Before the walls went up,
Before the walls came down.

IV.

These hands do not know hammer,
Nails, or wrench,
But they know the pen,
And through that pen, I write.
Construction comes from the hands,
The mind, and willingness.
As the pillars crumble,
I may not build supports
Of wood or of steel,
Although I will train my hand
To work them.
Until skilled to rebuild,
I will rebuild with words.