Powder Prime

The jackals jerking on the jess of Time
shall slip their shackles. Hordes, like ancient huns
whose spears seem toys before tomorrow’s guns,
show Man is Man’s worst enemy in crime.
The match is lit, prepared the powder prime.
The hour-glass empties, trickle quick_sand runs
between a pointless Past and Future suns.
Uncertain Present hangs, pale phantomime.
Aquarius prepares the floods to come,
while voices in the wilderness – which dumb
should have remained – shall sudden find a tongue.
The storm clouds murky warnings mass, the sum
of signs speaks volumes which – when read - leave numb.
A new age beacon beckons, web undone...

poem by Jonathan Robin
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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