Reckoning

An ebon tempest swirls across the sky
negating the serenity of dawn
along with any clever thoughts that I
may someday change my status as a pawn
and hinting that Apocalypse draws nigh
like hoarfrost creeping slowly on the lawn,
for scavengers are certain to appear
when chaos conquers all that we hold dear.

But when the sun ascends the crows abate
and roost beside that river to the west,
I labor for the nonce and calmly wait
until the day that I can truly rest,
oblivious to concepts such as fate—
a jester cannot change that he must jest
nor alter when that distant glowing ball
(like everything we know) at last will fall.