Chicken

What a time to be
To see such danger rising
To write fear parasitic
To smell the rot of paranoia
To paint the tragic blush
To gasp at lights swinging.
As the seismograph claws a panicked beat
We play chicken with our fate.
What will be said of us?
That we gilded this age
Or took it head on running?

-T. Weeks
(A response to “I Sit and Look Out”)