Impending

It's common sense, is it not;
To prepare for an impending disaster, you know is imminent?
Make sufficient preparations so that you may survive,
with as little suffering as possible.

Be that suffering pain of death,
or humility to the people;
Do you not indeed prepare,
for an impending disaster?

Yet common sense has fled,
and the preparations...
They lie in the dust;
Abandoned and lost.

Little time remains for us,
The world is predicted to end,
at the end of time and space;
A calender's end.

Yet, other disasters lie much closer;
Looming in fact, in place of common sense.
The sense talked about in legend;
Described as the sense that fled.

For example, my disaster lies tommorow;
At it's heart lies a piece of imagination;
A piece of poetry spurs my disaster.
An unthinking moment of pen and ink;

For I must perform this piece to a crowd;
My words must flow like a river,
over ears of crashing rapids.
And yet, my preparations, they lie in the dust.

Disaster imminent, I read my piece once,
taking it from it's dust gatherings,
To once more see the inspiration that sparked it;
I see nothing. Nothing bar disaster.

And so, As I compete for that poetic place;
I perform to the people for a title,
A title of recognition in poetry,
I'll reflect on this, and remember.

That to truly perform and prepare, I must give chase to the sense that fled.