Pink Hearse

Bless This Dust

Mister tortoise shell laughs,
Chastises us for living in the
Dirt, piss and shit he left us with.
We, the salt of the Earth,
Survive off the grit we cultivate
Living in the mud.
We thrive to spite the farmer.
For though he will consume our very bodies
Nothing will ever grow from what he has sown in
Smooth concrete,
Or the clean, white, sane walls
That divide room upon room of
Computers and chairs
Computers and chairs
Computers and chairs.
Nothing lives in his bare offices but miles of him,
Out to the stars and down to his atoms.
His heart touched by nothing anymore,
It is too long before the fatal fingers of time
Will begin to curl around it.
It is too long since it cried out for the last (wo)man it loved
Before freezing over.
We do not need to keep watching
To find out who is wealthy
And who is dying.

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This entry was published on January 19, 2017 at 6:55 am. It’s filed under Poetry, Real Talk and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink. Follow any comments here with the RSS feed for this post.

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