Seven Hours: Poetry


The volcano groans,
dormant no longer:
 The Day has finally come

The aristocracy has barricaded
themselves inside the fortress
with their companion Red Death

The coffers now stand empty
as thieves run for the hillside
with gold bars raining from their pockets

Now there is silence,
on Earth and in Heaven;
the Galaxies hold their breath and 
wonder if it will all explode

Let us wait here in silence 
Seven Hours,
in this final chance to become clean
as things fall apart...


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