the ides of march have come and gone

their solemn oaths traipsing

snorts and stutters and shimmerings of such

oh what hell this is raising!

the world ended once before, they cry

such are folly claims of woe

the trees may fall and the storms may blow

but no, we will never go!

the village carries on as nothing is amiss

with routine events and frivolous affairs

that simply cannot be skipped

only the mourning birds a-flight seem to care

their wings beat ferociously against the air

soon clouds creep from the horizon

the skies turn gauzy grey

but who are we to let a little rain end our day!

the storm starts and stops

the townsfolk start to cheer

but the ides are never mistaken

and a tornado soon is near

it greets and shakes the hands of the gathered

mustaches droop in fear

barbers drop their lather

babies wail and mothers flail

siblings clinging on

but nothing can save them

not then, not now

as the world is turned to dust

the sand of time drips on and on

each speck a reminder of

the words that fell on deaf ears

as lives only the morning dove

her lament warns of new fears

for generations to come

hoping that this time there will finally be

a listening of someone

**alas the story continues to date **

**every doorway left agape **

**with the hope that humanity will soon walk through **

**it seems they never do **

****

**so we search and we look **

**for signs of a wink **

**amid the hills and valleys **

**for someone perhaps to wave an arm **

**their belief never on the brink **

****

**but the past cannot be edited **

**with a feather tip quill **

**and until someone like you heeds the call **

**the sand will remain still **