I’m taking the liberty
of using the license
granted to poet and poetry
to expand upon that allegory
of the actor who runs onto the stage
screaming,
“Fire! Fire! The theatre is on fire!
Grab the hoses! Use the water!
Fight it! Fight it! Fight it!”
and while he pleads
and tries to lead
the audience to action,
they applaud the power of the script
and the actors portrayal
of a man caught in the middle
of a great emergency!
“Such power!” they all exclaim.
They shake themselves
to remind themselves
that it is all just a play,
done so many times before.

Later,

the remnant remaining
squats in the rubble strewn wreck,
still praising the cutting-edge pyro-FX
of the old theatre
crumbling into a smoking heap,
heat still rising from the pile.

Then,

while they stumble and choke their way home,
blinded by the smoke and fumes,
the ash and embers
light the night with a polluted glow.

And when, at last,
they reach the spot
where their dwelling,
“Surely, it was right here!”
stood,
they stand amazed by the slide of hand
that reduced their green and growing world
to a charred and dying wreck,
so realistic,
yet,
so fake.

Only then
do they catch a fleeting glimpse
of a shrouded-red-blood-moon.
And,
come the morning,
witness a vague sunrise
cloaked in fog and smog and smoke.
Only a remnant of the remnant
recognize their doom.

See them siting among the wreckage,
bewildered,
picking at their wounds,
recalling now,
at last,
the actors raving warnings…
They wonder,
in that bleak morning,
at the desolation
of their world.