Once there was a madness on the bloom.
Pollen carried on the breeze.
Carried to and fro by killer bees.
And made into their honey sweet.
To be spread on toast in the morning.

Guns shadows blended with the impending doom.
Fallen angels laughter filled the trees.
Harried peasants always mindful of thieves.
And the effort put forth to buy the meat.
To have with their toast in the morning.

Poets spoke of sadness out of empathetic fear.
Tradition dealt with lies.
Selling alibis.
To the reporters who work for the paper.
To be read with your toast in the morning.

Stoics solemnly defended the balance created by tears.
Transition lives with do or die.
Felling the weak with the wink of an eye.
As the world they once knew turned to vapor.
But the flowers still bloom in the morning.

Michael R. Roth