Doom's Day Prophecy

A tongue of dust, a mouth of clay
with patches of goodness
happy with mundane things
the soul still pines in sorrow and agony

and as the fullness of time sinks abroad
the sun shines with harsh realities
opinion talks tough of ill-fortunes
where a spot defiles a preacher

minted furnace burps, and broaden
the mountains flee from their mounds
into vallies of abyssmality
tall trees, shrubs, and little plants too.