Empire’s End

It is the end of empire.
I walk in circles around
my block like an amnesiac,
avoiding people like the plague.
Our hospitals, that were held in
ransom to tomahawk missiles
and silent-blooded drones,
finally get a trickle

It is the end of empire.
Truth died long ago –
if indeed it ever lived –
And today we believe anything:
That an apple ate the sky
That a pear has eyes.
Our wars have grown cold,
while the blood here hot.
Can we now appreciate the
privation wrought through aggression?

It is the end of empire.
Our paradisal gardens were pure,
we said
Paradise exists here,
we said
But then a huckster
unmasked the entire charade.
And what happens when
Ares has neither
glory nor world-savior pledge?
The empire is unmasked.

But first there is a steep fall,
like a drunk collapsing
on shards of glass.
No longer is the horror over there –
it’s all right here.
And when awakening from corona
with power inebriation dissipated,
things are different,
much different

it is the end of empire.

Peter F. Crowley is an independent writer and scholar with a M.S. in Conflict Resolution, Global Studies from Northeastern University. His writings can be found in Truthout, Antiwar.com. Mint Press News, Boston Literary Magazine, Ethnic Studies Review and several other publications Read other articles by Peter F..