Clear we are like like the sound
of singeing blades, through the tapestry
of life’s rich and poor, all are victims
all of us, simply, though there can be others
undoubtedly, steady philosophically, probably
reasonable, but who could tell with Ayn Rand
rousting people, because she grew
in extremes of injustice and horror, which arose because people know
their place, in the scheme of things
considered in wartime, but then they rejoice in joining
humanity’s final war, to join the elite.
The end of the world will not be supernatural,
it will take decades
beginning tonight, maybe.
Que sera sera, as they say