These times gouge slices from the standing will
For which hard apathy's the only balm,
And every fresh incision pains as ill
Or worse than each before, no blink of calm.
Our future is bereft of all great hope,
Death bearing down on us from every side,
As we slide close-eyed down the pathless slope,
Our kin doomed with us by our selfish pride.
These wounds at least may be by stories filled;
Not healing, but relief, even in part,
So that our souls may subtle bulwarks build:
Prevent the atrophy of love with art.
Though cataclysms ever brighter bloom,
Our way will not be joyless into doom.