Written on rough
concrete, begging for
repair,
groaning with the stress
of elder trees whose roots
have been growing since
the sidewalk was merely a
distant blueprint
each letter takes form,
the energy drains into
slate-colored tiles
the off-white substance,
once as long as an old man’s
weathered hands
grows smaller and humbler
until there is nothing left
but dreams and aspirations
waiting for the infrequent rainstorm
to wash it all away
Earth,
wrapped in eternal autumn
decays, all that grows, all
that is built, is on the road
to oblivion
falling to the soil
nourishing the seeds of
futures yet unbuilt
for what is autumn
but a distant relative to
spring.
Perhaps one day
fog breaks
to bring forth sunbeams
eagerly queueing behind
slate-grey veils
instead of naked judgement
cutting a path
with fire and shattering force
Will, one day in the distant future
when my body has decayed
to feed a cypress tree
overlooking the churning, roiling surf
one day,
will those that find the Earth
as my kind bequeathed,
flaws and all
discover in a meadow
of overpowering green
the last of the rusted rifles
that we once used to commit
societal suicide
One day, will “one day”
cease to be an idea
and become
one day.
Thanks to human apathy
green-gray vines
grow with impunity
here lies the pine-box forest
each specimen assembled from
copses, large and small,
their origins many
their final place the same
here lies the pine-box forest
contained within –
forlorn, ecstatic
rageful, placid
pleasure, pain,
that feeling, as if you
flew above the world
soaring, effortless
the earth itself within reach
here lies the pine-box forest
where we find one rare piece
of common ground
Brittle weeds
lie dead next to
a veranda,
now in splinters,
on its fated journey
to dust.
Monuments turn to ruins
Each chiseled stone covered
with weeds, woven
in time, nature always triumphs
its children grounded
for breaking curfew
Cities rise, thrive, fall, rot
under a Sun that
in time
fade into quiet insignificance
Earth, unchanging
a fiction
for Time plays its
symphony not for humans
its notes too few and deep
in a lifetime.
The last rune
traveled through time and
decay
lays, scarlet on limestone
witness to horrors
turned heroic
for that is what victors proclaim
A tale triumphed
over starboard bow
to those ignorant
of its glory
Each season’s turn
tongues forget
or their owners come
to reside
in earthen mounds
facing an obsidian sea
all that is left
is mystery.
The towering cliffs flinch;
When the waves crash upon them, grasping;
For they know that none;
Can resist the sea;
Elegant furrows, living in a paradise;
Of perfect order;
A hundred thousand seasons pass;
The plows crumble;
Into feeble rust;
And the Wild weaves its throne from;
Vines and moss once-shunned as chaotic;
And imperfect;
This Earth is not a sphere of glass;
Where every shape is kept in stasis;
The world is built;
To be destroyed- it is alive;
And nature is its blood.
Unspoken Politics 