Waiting... (For The Eschaton)

With a bang and not whimper...

A voice of slamming fists

revolted, rhymes the lists

of litanies that taunt to temper

This illness reveals another sickness

which no immunity can but witness

These masks, they mask no malice

Both coughs and scoffs so callous

What prisoners police this place?!

Where quarantined is any grace?!

In this world of wrath and ill

one ancient universal skill

one wrathful violent will

makes all intentions kill

What gawd is there to call upon?

What light remains for any dawn?

As all weary rage is waiting, scathing, waiting...

Waiting for the eschaton...

With a whimper, not a bang

Sorrows' song of psalms is sang

How long here must we suffer?

Will there ever be enough or...

are we damned to lament and linger,

our lives pinned under a middle finger

At the whim of fools and fate

all are made slaves unto the state

where fear fuels so, so much hate

and this hate, it cannot wait

to purge these pains with tears

or screams to burst all ears

All words are pronounced as jeers

Such sinister sounds enunciate the cheers

when all desire is to make things gone

Silenced, voices sing no final song

as all rights suspend to cancel wrong

Hasn't this all gone on too long?

As sadness is stranded waiting, unabating, waiting...

Waiting for the eschaton...

With no bang, and with no whimper

Even-toned ensconced mouths simper

Hell, it always could be worse

Things have always been adverse,

but it's all just obstacles to traverse

Even these plagues aren't such a curse!

It will all just go to show

how much we've yet to know

In the end, undoubtedly we'll see

there's plenty beyond these ends to be

We'll rise to stumble incessantly along

in this ultra-marathon unto the pantheon

As the existential echelons usher-on headstrong 

all of us just pawns continually perpetuating, vacillating, 

waiting, waiting, and waiting...

Waiting for the eschaton...