poem?

Delusions of grandeur writhe in his mind

Self destruction can't understand the find

Of a millennium of terror

And a month in a blender.

Doctors friends break up,

Places stay static in elevators

Drinking from other places' cup.

Awake bastards pump the wheel,

For no reason other than to let others feel.

Something aside from their lighting and balloons,

Makes their hearts melt.

And it's below Van Allan's Belt.

And I wonder why we let this mess happen,

It's a rollercoaster to hell,

and the seatbelts won't fasten.

Something destroyed the ability for facts to tell.

Warning signs were there,

Largely writ in the weather.

Coincidences don't occur,

Not on a scale like this.

This is no data blur.