Tick me to the end of days by Cath Campbell

It doesn’t tick, this I learned.
Scientists and laureates
meet in closed session,
discuss the end times
with measured words and argument.
When they break for tea
I bet they talk about their families,
that new play or book.
Maybe they vie for prominence
among their peerless group.

The majestic march of progress
spells a darker threat when matched
with tyranny and human greed.
The old sins repeat year on year
of conquest and of power.
These men cannot compete,
for those who’d win the world
are gamblers, chancers, haters
who’d sell their souls to soar,
and it’s them will kill us all.

It doesn’t tick, this I learned.
It screams.

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