The Future of All is Here Unlocked

Written on New Year’s Eve 1983 — my 18th birthday

Photo by Ivan Mani on Unsplash

Stars are shining gloomy’s the night
Renown writers display foresight
Light will alter the stars for now
The next calendars’ mysteries unfold.

Satin sheets pink and gold
Woolly sheep on crumbling rocks
Bundles of ribbons and bright feather mold
Blood trickles slowly from old wheezing clocks
The future of all is here unlocked.

Into the sky stars veiled by mist
Hundreds of days have made many run
Some were wicked and wrung the mind’s wrists
Many ambiguous understood just by few
The future of all is here unlocked.

Pink satin slippers and black silk tights
TV’s deaden ballerina’s mind
Pretty dog sleeping into the night
The tooth is found and truth unwinds
The future of all is here unlocked.

Now Tennessee Williams is cold as corpse’s hands
Blanch and Stella still argue but dream
Gleaming in darkness’ eyes is a man
Bloodshot, Stanley, the talk of the land
The future of all is here unlocked.

Orwell predicts one more calendar year
The sun will rise but the end looms near
slick leather, chains, tear-stung cheeks
Pale skin and heart singed by life’s heat
The future of all is here unlocked.

Before was spring unbudded by sleep
Sun rays deaden red tumbling leaves
Snow pounds streets and numb crackling toes
Dutiful drunks popping corks just to know
The future of all is her unlocked.

Everyday there is a reason why
To look ahead and wonder aloud
A nodding chin and loosening tie
A glance in the mirror eyes in a cloud
The future of all is here unlocked.

It all depends on the click of a clock
This will warn some of its time
Unplug the clock and cease its chime.

*Written on my 18th birthday, December 31, 1983, I just had to put this out. I’m not quite sure what was swirling around in my young mind— it’s such a fatalistic, depressing piece. For those of you who were around, in 1980, you may recall that the infamous televangelist Pat Robertson preached to viewers that the end of the world as we know it was slated for May of 1982, so maybe this was still on my mind. Or, perhaps, as it was the rage of young people at this time to discuss the approximate 400-year prediction of Nostradamus that doomsday was eminent in August of 1999.

Ann Marie Steele

I write poetry about love and loss, what I observe, experience, and pine for. I’m an acrobat, yogi & mom. My writing has been described as resiliently defiant.

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