Weir The Apocalypses

“A penny for your thoughts?”
I’ll pay a dime for my own
To voyage through this muddled head
Take a bus through my melancholy dome.

A magic bus, indeed-
May be the only thing I need
With clear doors to open
And snug luxurious seats.

I’ll drive throughout my memoirs
And conduct a thorough report;
On the times when I felt gleeful
And others when I was distraught.

The pit stops will be lucid
One for pain, friends and childhood
Yet these I will all skip
Straight to world worries.

What importance is the fashion?
Or a teacher-student quarrel
Against tedious and hazardous wars
And euthanasia morals?

My bus lets me depart
In front of a desktop filled of files
I place a large bundle in my hand
Labeled: “the faults of our land”.

From opening this list of bothers
A large sheet of paper will swell
It will list the a-z’s of sorrow
From abuse to toxic hell.

There includes suicide,
A young mothers pain
When she finds out her children
Were murdered, butchered, slain.

I ask myself: what can I do?
To help this woman through
Yet the issues keep arising
Spiraling across decades.

Endless wars, cancerous cells
Greed for money, poverty
The hole in our o-zone layer;
Money put in lottery
Instead of spent to aid.

Swollen bellies in the countries
Where love is a symbol of myth
Alcohol and drugs creating
More problems to deal with.

If only the world would stop
If my bus would let me stay
To think of the million ways
I could help.

A cry without the tears
For a world of atrocious fates
The increasing population in Tokyo
And Mexico’s large death rate.

Stepping on my magic bus
Escaping the back of my head
Where the apparent ‘insignificance’
Will mold until mentally dead.

I take a trip to my importances
The superficial wants and needs
Though now I have concerns
For the world’s pain, I bleed.

Once I exit my dome of negligence
I label ‘the brain of naïve’
Prioritise the imperatives
Of The Land’s Apocalypse.