The Straw-Men and the End of Days

Nothing beats the taste of strawberries – the taste of summer and all things good, where the good overflows and evil tarries and where no man ever thought he could. The scarecrows’ of electric hearts, though each torso varies – the way men built them before the ending would, in its’ remaking: the clay lahars, wave after wave, bend the wiry shapes to fit the coffin for their grave. New York – the city of great merriment, the circus lying dead now, and no straw hats. In fact, all the American towns, buried in resentment after the great judgment day, right up to the collapse. But, standing high above the fallen tenement, a copse of them, alone, in frozen lapse. Like death, the stark contrast in steeled ethnicity said nothing of the ebb of sanity. Unrest, that’s what the straw-men really seek; the end of days, the war, and God’s acerbic wrath. The world was inherited (are you surprised) by the meek, and the political wheel wrought by Sylvia Plath. And on empty shoulders, the strong comforted by the weak, swaying slightly, neither the candle nor the torch lit the path. How can a world so devoid of virtue re-exist? (How can I, whose action moved, not resist?)