Slouching Towards Gomorrah

In response to a Yeat's poem, title borrowed from a Bork book

Are we slouching towards Bethlehem?
No, rather, we are creeping, sliding
Slouching towards Gomorrah
As the house slides off
Its foundation of faith
And the cradle once gently rocked
Is overturned
The babe in swaddling clothes left to wail
Hungry for the milk
Of followers
Of disciples stoned
Of palm lined streets
Some false followers claim to walk away
But they always look back
They are addicted to the dark
It runs in their very blood
They look back
So the way is scattered with salt
It may not be the end
Of fire or ice
But the end as we know it
Not the end of the world
But end of life
Because the road will run out
We will cease to slouch
But fall into the waiting arms
Of Destruction