Bloom
Once there was a
madness on the bloom.
Pollen carried on
the breeze.
Carried to and fro
by killer bees.
And made into
their honey sweet.
To be spread on
toast in the morning.
Guns shadows
blended with the impending doom.
Fallen angels
laughter filled the trees.
Harried peasants
always mindful of thieves.
And the effort put
forth to buy the meat.
To have with their
toast in the morning.
Poets spoke of
sadness out of empathetic fear.
Tradition dealt
with lies.
Selling alibis.
To the reporters
who work for the paper.
To be read with
your toast in the morning.
Stoics solemnly
defended the balance created by tears.
Transition lives
with do or die.
Felling the weak
with the wink of an eye.
As the world they
once knew turned to vapor.
But the flowers
still bloom in the morning.