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Document Type

Poem

Abstract

Panic

Lights blare and whistles blow

The keys turn, buttons glow

With that final word, that final press

All are thrown in a deep distress

For that great death bell has been rung

And this final fate can’t be unsung

Upon vast lands and towers tall

Those grim titans now quickly fall

As a mother strokes her son’s thin hair

And tells the tale of past lands so fair

Where drills had no need to be taught

And war was not for childs’ thought

Dust and ash form dunes so grand

And trees of dark char cover the land

Tales of old invoked anew

The darkest peace we ever grew

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