Spiritus Mundi

Cold breath frosts my cheeks
as a voice shimmers from the void --

I hear this time
he has arrived.

Myopic computers smash
a thousand dreams and crumpled
dollars flutter through
canyons of ruined concrete.

Dust collects on glass,
the man churns out the daily toll --
steel laws grind life to pulp,
and blood simmers on the stove.

They say this time
he has arrived.

And in the snow there rests
the doll with no eyes,
speared through the forehead
by the reflection of the moon.

Dull echoes shutter muted laughter
as he scratches away
at victory.

Cabbage patch kids have come and gone,
whispered souls skipping lightly by --
the towers are lost,
and all
remains
the same.

I fear the time
has arrived.