Doom.
Say it again....
Doom.
Something inside just echoed a dark fear...
Doom.
Shrug it off, it’s only a game...
Doom.
It's only a word others use out of context. But yet...
Doom.
Like a deep, guttural resonation of thunder or an earthquake...
Doom.
Yet still, there's some thing more, a realization, an idea...
Doom.
Foreboding, reaching from under your bed to seize your ankle and dragging...
Doom.
Just now you had the desire to scroll away, to swipe left, right or any way
...away from that well lit fear...
Doom.
Every one, every thing, your every care, even your very self is prey to...
Doom.
Draw the blinds, lock the doors, batten down the hatches (we have those?)
and ward off the impending, impertinent, inevitable...
Doom.
Still, you cannot deafen your hearing to the rasping voice of George Santayana;
His cold, thirsty voice whispering history over and over and over...
Doom.
Because you refuse to think or even Google yourself...
Doom.
Because it is easier to like and scroll away than to question and learn...
Doom.
And that drum beat will get louder and louder...
Doom.
Beating deeper and darker, until it drowns out everything
and in the last moment, when you hear The last beat, you hear...
Your heart beat.
