A Modest Correction

Our President proudly commands the biggest, workingest nuclear button in the world. Perhaps.

I know that he’s a fella that has a little difficulty with complex ideas. It’s okay to call a country a shithole because it’s economically poor and to pretend that you never  intended to demean the people who name it as their birthplace. In his world, the other people, the foreigners, are the enemy; they want to take our jobs and displace our children. he reduces the history of the United States of America to a simple formula – my people (white people) were doing well and now they’re not. Others are to blame. Let us then get rid of the others and make America Great Again.

Once, our mighty army ruled the world but we, misled by the liberals (and their political correctness), negotiated away our power (hate them). No more. It’s time to flex our nuclear muscle, again. Remember when we weren’t afraid to use The Weapon? We sure showed those Japanese (think of the word he’d use here instead of the politically correct ‘Japanese’). Well, let’s make it plain that we’re, again, restored to our Greatness by Him (he’s a genius, he would say), ready and eager to drop a few more, this time on the people of North Korea. To teach the political leaders of that country a lesson in Greatness and Leadership.

It is now Two Minutes to Midnight, hence the title of this entry.

I’d like to share with you a little poem I wrote a long time ago, back when the Great Leader was still desperately struggling to find a bailout for his failed businesses.  and the Doomsday Clock was at Three Minutes to Midnight.

Three Minutes

Waiting for this thick night’s yielding
to a thinning dawn. Listening
to the passing beat
of dreamtime’s slow hours.
It’s coming. Creaking
bones stirring
ending, beginning.
In the pale sweep of History
memories linger.
Past midnight, nothing
escapes the hot flash.

There, unknown dead,
grim shadows on once walls
carbonized remains
black images in the light.
The light, the light that burns the soul
to ashes, to dust, to vapors
till mortal conscience
screams in pain. Horror!
resonating through folds of time
screaming its demands
the washing of hands.
Do not speak of Hiroshima.
Do not mention Nagasaki.
But it is still three
minutes to midnight.

About neiladaniel

Self published writer of sci-fi, fantasy, poetry, so far.
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