Letters of Last Resort

Some call it deterrence

Others call it madness

Machines programmed to strike if struck,

So the world itself becomes one vast dead man's switch

First, we dreamt of crossing the plains

The seas and soaring above the clouds became goals after that

Then, we dreamt of a fire hotter than the sun

They say spring is on its way

That’s not the mood of the world today

Cold hands write beyond recall, the final note of silence

The world holds its breath beneath it all, a fragile, tense compliance

Sealed in shadow, words of dread

Ink on parchment for the living dead

A hand may falter, yet the page commands

The final fire rests in trembling hands