Theatre of the Plague

Mellifluous prosody of today sheathed in,
Nebulous words of tomorrow;
An eerie, stormy calm
A phantasmagorical reality.

With hope do I attempt to vamoose the plagued serendipity of stillness,
But the prosody dogs my convoluted thoughts,
Threateningly close to me, to you, to the worker,
To the religious zealot, to the profane, to the heathen,
To the infant in the playpen.

Rakishly sauntering through the garbled alleys of human achievements,
Deflating economies, plundering castles, ticking time bombs that read
19 minutes to explosion!

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