MIKE

My poem, for prosperity and memory purposes, should you want to remember it:

"Sonnet for the End Times"

With boarded windows and failing light
A man seeks shelter in the old shack
The herd is coming, but he’s not wanting to fight
Nowhere to run, no turning back
A hunting knife, a 45., all he has to stay alive
He wonders, briefly, if this is a dream,
No, he says, no it’s not, but anyway, the herd did arrive,
It’s pitch black outside, and then, a single scream
He sighs, and cocks his gun
And opens the window, fires into the crowd
But they keep coming, the nights not done
With the darkness covering everything an a inky shroud,
When the night is over, he rests his weary head,
His life isn’t over, because he isn’t really dead

Sunny outside, feeling cool. May go and play some sports later.