I was wrong about
Poetry dying
Along with the world
Which breathes it
As our collective wills
Keep gasping
Despite this cough
That spreads

To eradicate
Beautiful words
And suffocate art
Still trying
Through crushing souls
By silence
Or extracting faith
From fear –

Rare benevolence
Hiding in shells
Now worried how hate
Turned lethal
Drawing lines
Where tragedy festers
Over politics
Evil has strewn

Like storm clouds
Harboring rain
Hailing heaven’s
Unfortunate judgment
Watching mankind’s
Quiet division
Become their creed
They have prayed,

Losing voices
Begging real change
Under sprawling grays
Forming thunder
Beneath dark skies
Casting shadows
Across faces
Mistaken for masks

Though needing hope
More than sin
Could ever allow
During endings
So slowly played
Even decades
Wait eagerly
Pacing towards grace.

Condemned men
Accumulate wealth
While believers
Paint every detail
Singing songs
Creating true visions
Reflecting dreams
Always pure

Since expecting
Nothing but grief
Until loved ones
Join them in praising
Meager blessings
Amid our apocalypse
Proving kinship
Beyond any doubt.

• J. Pigno