It’s a million little things,
That portend a fall.
Small enough,
To go unnoticed.
Gradual, until it’s not,
And arresting it,
Is harder,
The longer it runs.
It’s written, the road is broad,
And many will take it.
There is something in the old
Wisdom.
Civility dies,
In the chaos, the clash,
As the wide gate leads
To destruction.
The point of no return,
Takes effort to discern,
But a clue can be seen,
In the million little negotiations,
Of the social contract,
On the King’s Highway.
By W. N. Branson
