At the edge


A heavy unease rests in the air,

foreshadowing bad things to come.

It clings, the smell of cigar –

musk of death.

The very air is charged with tension;

Walls crack and the ground unsteady.

Fear has been let in

and Panic has come a-knocking.

This day of ends,

not a sliver of silver is in sight.

 
Photo credit: overseastom / Foter.com / CC BY-NC-SA

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