Like popcorn
The mysteries of days unfold
While the green people still wait
With eyes gleaming with anticipation.
The creaks of the rickety bridges
Of toil and misery
That connect the shimmering peaks of arrival
Have always been a sign
That a fruitful final destination
Is a figment of imagination.
Hope and desire, noticing man’s greed,
Enchant him to step more ahead
Until he realizes that the rickety bridge of toil
Is stretched over a destruction-filled chasm.
Everything is a phantasm.
In the middle of this broil
A devilish playful sound blasters
The swaying bodies of the survivors
Goading them to wake up
And to behold the tormented last seed of popcorn
Forcibly dancing on a hot surface of oppression
Announcing to the fools
That they are crossing the Rubicon.