it is evident to any with eyes
the ancients spoke the prophecies
unfolding from the pages for all to see

wars, talk of war - turmoil boiling
into the broken streets
clouds of smoke, pale riders of disease
galloping grimly through every land

we have seen the prelude cycling up
mounting like a roiling ocean wave
just before sweeping everything before it

the escape isn't found in physical
geography or flight from the cauldron
of helter-skelter cities as if
some Appalachian hideaway could 
put you off the grid of destruction

your only hope knocks at the gate, waiting
for you to respond - the latch is on 
the inside to

a deathless paradise