(Author’s note: No doubt we all hope that this never comes to pass, and that wiser heads manage to prevail)
The Flowers of Empire
They’ll bloom those flowers will
If madness reckons ‘tis time to kill
Putin’s no great tiller of reason
As he blood-sniffs the air for start of season
Should it come the stems’ll roil high
They’ll rival the sun and rend-crack the sky
They’ll propagate and proliferate
And dog release waves of ripped-snarl hate
The winds of sigh will obliterate out
Whatever compulsive earth-heave leaves standing about
Never will become now and time will cleave
As bodies mound up, tindered and sheaved
The harvest of the Flowers of Empire
Power’s folly delivered entire
Our futures ended complete
Our shadows faintly etched onto crumbled concrete
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