We have become

Our own Gods;

The world around us

Changing with our mood.

 

Watchful trees grow old

In solitude

As concrete towers high

Into closed skies.

 

Open fields and gently waving grass,

A scene from a memory;

Faint,

Nostalgic,

Beautiful.

 

As some weep for the elusive freedom

Of a warm summer breeze,

Others watch

As layers of concrete censor

The Creator’s art.

 

Greens and Reds

To neutral Grey

As the whispers of the wind

Change to the grating

Scrape of metal

In the fires of our progress.

 

Neatly-mown patches of weeds

Are to serve as our new Eden;

All identical,

But our own,

Nonetheless.

 

We are blind to change

As we see

The progress of Men

Forget what made us

Possible.

 

And here I sit,

In my room of concrete,

Wishing for backwards

Change;

A shift to

Peace.

 

 

 

 

 

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