What does it feel like

To have your entire world crumble before your very eyes,

To have your existence unravel like a loose strand of thread

From an elaborate tapestry?


The clock strikes midnight,

Ushering in a new era

Of uncertainty.

As the smoke clears and the apocalyptic confetti rains down upon us,

What will we see?


Revelers pass as if in a dream.

Sipping ayahuasca-laced champagne,

I’m haunted by visions of the future,

Each more frightening than the next

As the manifesto of disaffected youth

Blares from the doomsday radio.


“I’ve got the New Year Blues,

‘Cause I’m not satisfied.

Got those New Year Blues,

How I wish that I’d died.”


Doubt!  Fear!  Shame!

State capitols and city halls fall to ruin,

Their foundations exposed, the blackness within,

Writhing and contorting like a thousand leeches

Thirsty for the blood of the people.


O madman, behind your podium,

Spare us your lies, your hate, your deceit,

For surely, we are wiser and far more intelligent

Than you think us.

We will not be fooled.

We will not be swayed.

We will not be tempted as Eve was by the serpent of Hell.


Revolution!  Prosperity!  Creativity!

Ferlinghetti once called poetry an insurgent art,

And it is with this that I shall arm myself.

Word as weapon,

Prose as punishment,

Against you and the torment you sow.

© Chester Sakamoto