Rising tensions around the globe, in conjunction with worryingly lax treatment of nuclear warfare by the U.S. President, has led to a re-excitement of Cold War-era fear and anticipation. This has been a major source of anxiety for many people, myself included. Thus, the poem explores these apocalyptic ideas as a way to elaborate on this sense of impending demise, and potentially warn against the leisure with which some discuss this issue.
When Winter comes there will not be a street on which to march
The light will fade from city sights as life will leave this Earth.
When rushed response by mindless slugs sets forth the end of days
Ironic ramblings wrought with righteous truth receive but just dismay
When wicked wiles of wilted dreamers drip through rusted grates
Art becomes corroded dust concealed by ancient wake
When sparrows weep on vacant trees the scourge will make its mark
For hunger pangs strike hardest when you’re proving your own worth
When wretchedness and willfulness align in needless night
Intense lament for peaceful days will die beside your might
When sweet embrace means more to you than loving ever will
Nuanced violence rises to replace your silent wait
When whirring rockets race above the luscious dawn of morn
Freedom finds its filthy head aghast, detached, and shorn
When snowfall fraught with fervent ash sheathes jagged aftermaths
You wandering blights alight with rage may bleed on rotting past
When Winter comes catastrophe will feel like daily strife
When Winter comes your apathy will be the killing knife
