Generation
by generation,
tribe by tribe,
family by family,
one by one,
season after season,
the ten thousand things
arise across millennia,
prosper and thrive,
and die away.
Extinction
may be inevitable,
but what right do we have
to hurry the clock
for anyone but
ourselves?
Posts
1 comment:
Neocons
In a courtyard of tigers,
Warehouses sweat. Shy
Mavericks freeze
Mankind’s umbilical
Cord. Their curved
Solitude toys with
Tongue-tied death.
Their planetarium
Peels back from its
Parricide of saboteurs.
Feather-dusters along
An optic nerve fizz
In teaspoons of thunder.
The neurologist of beer
Serves bruises among
Electric sandmen.
[Disposable Poem October 25,2013]
Dr. Mike
Post a Comment