The End of Heaven

On the rise, a hundred populations suffer.
In decline, a hundred populations suffer.
Won, they gather ruin. Lost, they gather ruin.

This is not a very nice thing to write. It’s not
Heroic or hopeful or grimly determined.
It’s too passive and half in love with helplessness.

Good. The hopeful and heroic and the grim saints
Of linear salvation donate blood to tyrants.
Join or flee from them, you’re dust. There’s no magic dust.