By Daniel Tarade

We have built our lives on shifting ground
Buzzing mosquitos beneath dripping amber
The grinding of teeth a constant sound
Society dies in an echo chamber
Believing what we wish, we never act
Our impression of three wise monkeys, orange and black

Rather than face uncertainty
We worship a mirage
We believe in the best possible currently
Unprepared for the barrage
A sickly Pangloss, stabbed in the back
Dies while sputtering, orange and black

If islands can form from magma
As if summoned by Charles Lyell
Perhaps the spewing of more lava
Will instill panic for a while
Realizing all that we lack
Slumped over in fear, orange and black

Only with Hell’s fury and brimstone
Outstretched skin flayed
With dagger’s iced touch to the bone
Will we fall on our knees to pray
Words immortalized but layered deep in stacks
From only the wisest of seers, orange and black

Belief that our heroic acts will always succeed
In saving our lives and China
Eases the dread and allows us to breed
Hollow words mean less than saliva
Quick-curing cement only hides the cracks
We’ve squandered our years, orange and black

I must concur with Sir Alfred Tennyson
Nature doesn’t care about the piece or whole
Instead it marches on and on
With disregard for mind and soul
Disappearing before we react
Just the briefest of footnotes, orange and black

Does our death constitute judgement day?
To be punished or forgiven
Or rather a collective wasting away
Lavished for living
Coping with instability is what I lack
Faced matted with tears, orange and black