It’s close to midnight: A poem 

I hear the mountains crumbling like a destitute in a storm 

The night looms like an upturned ocean of citadels lost to con 

Cold winds of tyranny slice humanity’s gorges before good is born 

Those that live in wealth’s lodges aren’t aware their luxury is porn  

There is no silent revolution, no army to fight for the glory of truth 

The shame is for deluged honesty, unceremoniously given the boot 

Butterflies have brief moments in the sun, getting rarer to come by 

Their wings are torn from corruption, all sacred has become a lie 

There is a pun for sustainability when they say the earth is boiling 

The earth will never die, it’s humaneness that needs the oiling 

There is a self-tutored reasoning not to follow helpless causes 

Poverty is very unwelcome, but the poor in spirit are the bosses 

Can we make sense of why all our treadmills sound like croaks 

There is a race by oligarchies to monopolise every neighbourhood bloke 

Integrity’s rhinos are on skateboards headed for certain catastrophe 

Can the Ark come in handy as Damocles’ sword points at posterity