Anticipation of Disaster

In our latest hour, Can things look but not in their blackest? Can shadows seem not to encroach, And darkness, despair, consume? The shroud skies of melancholy dangle, Like noosed men, Gingerly crooked against hopeless cogitation. Gaseous smoke billows uncertainty, And we choke down its noxious fumes, To drown in lungs brimmed with inaction. Hearts spatter emotive ashed wax, Slowly boiling to a rotten massy pulp. Fear throbs yet unbloodied breast, pulse slowly deadening to a roar. Unclimbed mountain crevasses, Prick slices of shattered memory, Which fall to an eddied pallor, Delicately laced in earnest dishonesty. Arsenic slashes razor reality, To crudely chisel bile drenched comprehension.