blind are the ones who claim the end is near
who rest their prophecies on paperweights
they mislabel their doubts and wrap their fears
in a neat little bow-tied package called faith.
every rain is a flood, and every wind The Storm
no man can rest in peace without cause
stuck to his grave, scraped on his tombstone
a meaning deeper than he ever could have known.
and if the world were truly nearing its end
we are yet to reach the peak up our backs
that has us whet away at our own intellects
for what is a chronicle, without a climax?
and so you’ll forgive me for my excesses
in swearing there exists another level of sanity
i may not believe in tarot cards and crystal balls
but i recklessly rest my faith in humanity.