When the surf turns to galloping steeds
thundering up and down the beach,
their pounding hooves throwing clots

of sand skyward, sending sunbathers
and families swollen with children
scurrying scared to their shiny cars,

when the arms of night are filled
with predatory birds who have
developed a taste for human flesh,

perched on church steeples, capitol
domes, mail boxes, parking meters,
awaiting those who prove unwary

enough to venture into the dark,
when trees from pole to pole and
continent to continent kamikaze

themselves on power lines and
pipelines, roadways, and train
tracks, leaving us shivering or

sweltering in our four walls,
when locusts swarm, plagues
thrive and mutate, typhoons

wail, oceans rise and overflow,
when nuclear reactors meltdown,
plastering the landscape with

a storm of radioactive debris,
when the Net collapses, virused
to oblivion, never to rise again,

when the Four Horsemen of
the Apocalypse come riding
out of the clouds, their ghastly

skulls bared and grinning,
scythes and swords flashing,
then at last we understand

that Earth has had its fill of
profligate madness and our
turn at the wheel has passed.

Bruce Boston's poetry has received the Bram Stoker Award, the Asimov's Readers Award, and the Rhysling and Grand Master Awards of the Science Fiction Poetry Association. His fiction had received a Pushcart Prize and twice been a finalist for the Bram Stoker Award (novel, short story). You can reach Bruce at http://bruceboston.com/ Read other articles by Bruce.