I was convinced, at a young age,
that I would be witness
to the end of the world.
I was six when I first received this revelation.
There would be gigantic boulders
falling from the sky
and green plastic soldiers
would wage war with the world.
The picture was clear as television.
Platoons of toy armies marching,
jumping over trenches.
Commanding tanks and infantry
would battle atop of cities and towns. Each soldier
cold as the plastic
that forged them.
Thousands of meteorites, searing scars on a sky hazed from the exhaust of battle,
splashing upon the earth.
Telling my grandmother, attempting to explain
the seriousness of these visions
always ended with her assurance that God
would never allow that to happen.
She was optimistically confident
in the idea of a supreme protector.
As I got older the fears
of destructive boulders from the sky
and war mongering toy soldiers
changed to the idea of nuclear holocaust.
The ominous mushroom cloud irradiating
the heavens, the annihilating flash of seared shadows
onto the sides of buildings.
The air burning.
to my grandmother only led to the reassurance
that God loved his children to much
too allow something like that to happen.
In time that was all replaced
with the idea of mass desertification,
smog scarred skies, and oil wasted oceans.
Beached whales whose carcasses have
to be treated like hazardous material
because of the biomedical waste
infesting their bodies.
The world’s destruction
was no longer
some unseen force or
a maniacal power struggle for dominance,
but our own selfish desires
and greed engorging the planet.
The arrogance that we
could have it all,
never having to think of
By this time my grandmother had passed on
and somewhere on the horizon,
where the icons of civilization
meet the precipice,
all so unpredictable,
linger upon the voices of assurance
that it will all be alright.