Squandered Poem by Alan Buckholtz

The tumult of silence, no warning before
space became itself in kaleidoscopic terror
in the morning of nothing, no less or no more
no explanation for this cosmic error

The balance of chaos in tortured display
colliding cosmos with thundering blast
the squeezed out a first day
fragments of the future without a past

The man with the beard gave us the tools
he sprinkled his gifts for us to use
from the slime to the upright for this trip of fools
to create and share, not to abuse

But in our time before the night
we burn his bones to travel fast
consuming from his gut everything in sight
believing it all will forever last

An inconvenient truth looms in our path
as our canvas bleeds we choke on his dream
wallowing in our soot his hope turns to wrath
a ticket too late to redeem?