In the End Only Wreckage

Ours is a fallen world and
bit by bit the nightmare intensifies,
inching toward total horror and
some as-yet unknowable state
of demented lunatic perfection.
I have it on good authority, mainly
ominous electronic voices heard
in hyper-vivid apocalyptic dreams
and prophetic-seeming telepathic
messages of unknown origin received
during late-night pot-related reverie,
that our unseen cosmic supervisors
are hard at work drawing up plans for
a psych ward at the edge of the galaxy
capable of comfortably accommodating
more than seven billion maniacs.