A pale, ghostly sky, cold Artemis slowly sets,
To the east Venus… and dire threats.
Cold again, the grass is hard, war looms ahead,
The dogs hurry, wish to eat and get back to bed.

As quiet and as still as the grave,
Is Death about, and are we knaves?
Ships have sailed, whole world holds its breath,
Sanity? Or will the winner be Death?

Not a noise or breath of air, but not serene,
Raw cold and quiet, things are seldom what they seem.
We wait to see if Putin will go,
Or has he already won, and was this a show?

And what lesson will be learned in Beijing,
By that ugly Communist who would be king?
Will he roll the dice, and go to war,
Or will he wait, just as before?

To the north a frightened young man,
Distraught, but with an evil plan,
And possessed of the state’s might,
Has decided he alone knows what’s right.

And in our capital an old man, sad, tired,
Confused, angry and dazed,
Propped up and put on display,
Sits, and waits to be told what to say.

So back inside and break some bread,
The puppies eat and go back to bed.
Then I sit down to read more news,
But always I return to my Muse…

I see her sitting on a sandy beach,
So near, but just out of reach,
That vision just might save me
From this current insanity.

Copyright 2022 Arrias
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