Imagine that you are a marble mountain and the ground shakes.
Your crest topples, it had always teetered, but now, too late.
Tithe to Time. Tithe to Titans. Twenty tanks roll down Tirana.
A crumbling heap of Earth you are.
Nothing you can do.
A terrifying rain of rocks pours down upon little Verona.
Gravel to God, boulders to men.
A gaping hole emerges beneath your feet.
The foundations shutter.
The air sinks, and so does your spirit.
The clouds dissipate.
The world is engrossed in your destruction
News networks blare it 24/7, as though this happened overnight,
Yet the origins were years ago.
She had a cancer inside her which ate, like battery acid
Until a cavernous bubble within her bowels grew too thin,
And entire cities dissipate in the gloop, her veins bled and congealed, her breath a sigh and a terror.
To swallow little Verona and even the priests,
Even the holy and the wise and the messengers.
Dramatic, I know, yet possible.
Possible, I know, yet unlikely.
Unlikely, I know, for now at least, but inevitable.
Inevitable, I know, for now at least, but irrelevant.
We live, we laugh, we learn.
And no matter how much we fear it, we do not dread.
As long as the plan carries out, it's still a plan.
Take stock in that.
Not that you will, not that you should.
Redeem this thought for carefree days.