The Quiet Fall of Nations
Long ago, before the chaos of man, when elections were fair, or close to being fair
The leaders of the so-called ‘free world’ spoke softly, at least most of the time
High and mighty they appeared, somehow equating elections with a crowning coronation
Velvety words slithered from their tongues, often to forced cheering and hollow applause
Endless hours ticked away as those gifted in words of twisting, mistook talk for triumph
In those days, tailored suits shouted caution, while true wisdom was sidelined, and courage slept
Decisions were never made, only delayed, then forgotten, buried beneath protocol and politics
Yet those not firmly tied to the coattails began tuning out to the rhetoric of spin
The fires of anarchy outside grew hotter, brighter, and crept closer to their gilded halls
Unbeknownst or perhaps tagged trivial to the self-proclaimed Lords and Ladies
Beyond those marble walls, the forgotten nations stirred, their patience wearing thinner
A gnawing hunger, not just for food, but for dignity, for voice, for reckoning
Disbelief raged in weary eyes as the glowing screens spoke in lock-stepped false truths
Cities were carved by debt and drought, fields and factories stripped bare by greed
And in the silence of their struggle, anger took root like an ancient weed
One non-descript day, the masses rose, not in unity, or rebellion, but in desperation
The fires of anarchy were stirred, kicked at, and spread into the darkest of places
Soon the sound of marching feet grew to an unavoidable thunder, this, their last chance for redemption
Urban rabble crossed parched wastelands, their message trumpeting to a world unready to listen
Soon the architects of chaos emerged, and the masses were organized, armed, and instructed
The first sparks came quietly — border clashes, riots, anonymous digital attacks on the corporations
But again, none were taken seriously, each went unanswered, while the media played invisible
Weak policies of the so-called leaders led to nothing more than stuffed pockets and play
Bills were introduced with great fanfare, each laden with more graft than the previous ones
Speeches polished smooth by cowardice and compromise, while infrastructure eroded from its foundation
Words failed, language began to lose its power, speeches couldn’t fly the fighter planes
Hungry soldiers became hungry deserters, tearing off badges and insignia as they walked away
The tailors and seamstresses were called in and the speechwriters worked overtime
While outside the masses surged and maps redrew themselves beneath skies darkened by smoke and fire
Cities vanished under collapsed concrete and twisted steel, their names only surviving as obituaries
As the chaos spread, the earth became a weathered chessboard overturned by a novices’ rage
Some pieces shattering on the hardened floor, others rolling away, the players long departed
Queens and Kings were the last to drop, their hollow voices crying out as the abyss collected them
And just as it started, it ended with a great cloak of silence falling l across the battlefields
In the aftermath, rogue factions scavenged through the ruins for power and purpose
With no one left to blame, they were gifted the terrible inheritance of humankind
Relics of war were gathered, including the dormant gods of annihilation
Unspoken weapons branded with top secret classifications, hidden in dark bunkers
Nuclear fire, engineered plagues, and whispers that could erase cities with a signal
Without the former leaders of the nations to restrain them, they became the new architects of fear
Out with the old, and in with the new, the silver tongues replaced by the anarchists
Without the speeches, the words were reduced to nothing more than trench chatter
Lost eloquence, forgotten phrases, and no chance of ever regaining them
Yet, it mattered for naught, for soon the sky burned again, not in skirmishes, but everywhere
Warlords without restraint all met their demise on that fateful nondescript day
And in that final red dawn, no side remained to claim victory, and no speeches were spoken
Seas boiled, the clouds turned black, and humanity, once so proud of its dominion, became rumor
Ghosts of civilization were all that remained, and a single truth echoing through the void
When the strong grow timid and the wise grow silent, when fear governs the brave and the poor are left unheard,
The end does not march upon us in fury, rather waits patiently, quietly, for permission to descend
Additional Reading
R.J. (Ralph) Schwartz is an American poet, author, website owner, and online publisher. His writing spans several poetry collections—ranging from spiritual and romantic to fear-driven explorations—and even extends into science fiction. Notable works include:
Hope – Inspirational and Spiritual Poetry
Things That Go Bump in the Night – Poetry of Fear and Fright
The Lover’s Thread – Poetry for Couples
Poetry of the Human Condition – The Ups and Downs of Modern Living
The Secrets of the Moon (a sci-fi novel co-authored with his son Sebastian J. Schwartz)
Schwartz’s work is described as purposefully wordy, richly descriptive, and thematically grounded in nature, romance, antiquity, and forgotten histories. He writes regularly on platforms he manages, including The Creative Exiles, a collaborative venue for writers, and The Gypsy Thread, which delves into offbeat histories, pagan lore, and poetry.
- The Spring Collection - May 8, 2026
- Faces Without Names - May 6, 2026
- In That One Breath - May 4, 2026
