Matted and stygian feathers refuse to spread
in a sable surcoat of doom.
Bearing the emblems of ascendancy too soon;
How could our hubris have led
to such a portentous death?
Oracles abound with their looking glasses clear
and offerings on a plate.
But we consign them to the soothsayers of hate;
handicapped by our fear
we blind all of our seers.
Darkness is comforting when it works to cloud
a disruption soon to emerge.
A feigned surprise when the path shall diverge
unto roads unannounced
beneath constructed shrouds.
When steel-tipped wings shall graze the sun,
transient as a cresting wave,
all is consumed with no attention paid
to the damage we have done;
the bullets from our smoking guns.