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The Earth she turns,
The Earth she burns,
Lungs full of smoke,
Lungs start to choke,
No-one listening to her screams,
No-one caring what this means,
Wildlife havens, all decimated,
Now those lands lie desolated.

The Earth she is turning,
The Earth she is burning,
Charred embers burning bright,
Burning wildly, day and night,
Flora, fauna, creatures all,
Dying on this burning ball,
Mighty rainforests now just ashes,
Destroyed by impish burning flashes.

She burns as she turns,
And she turns as she burns,
Forests smoulder, destroyed by flames,
Victims of our Human aims,
The more destruction that we wreak,
The more the outcome seems so bleak,
Revenge, she'll bring us certain death,
Ensuring mankind's final breath.

Cinco Espiritus Creation
4th September 2019
Genuine like a child
Candid like an open book
Exotic like The Wild
Reassuring like a second look
My baby
He always stops to look at
school art displays, searching for
the old hiking boot paintings.
Examines them very closely,
not artfully, but comparing
wrinkles with his mirror image.

Their skin colour darker than his,
except for the newer, resented
interlopers. He doesn't trust them,
inexperienced, uncomfortable,
painfully rigid in their ways.
He favours those that have seen better days.
 Apr 2019 Kenn Rushworth
By. Lauren

Why is it we sigh in relief?
A leap for joy when no words are to be said.
The fading of a pounding sensation in the head.
The souls who most long for it seem to never find it.
I must shush now before my words become poison to someone else's mind.
He stands above the bridged weir,
watching the sunlight striking
the waterfall, where stream joins river,
bright silver spray, subtle spectrum.

Ripples exhaust their energy
on the black glassy surface,
obscuring the waiting menace
pervading his dark imaginings.

He's beyond its reach, sheltered
by artifacts, though exposed
in stillness to ghostly thoughts,
cloaked in ancient folklores' clothes,
savage rites, evil onslaughts.
I seldom stop to think about,
The things that make me—me.
My stardust eyes reflect starry skies
And all that’s in between.
I have a body which knows no rest,
My swelling chest
My full plump *******
Have held most everything.
It was your pillow
When one too many
Problems creased your brow,
It was a saucer,
When you painted me
With honey and olive green,
Only to be licked and ravaged—
Nearly torn at the seams.
These hands have seen more I argue
They weather by the day,
By whenever they touch your sensitive skin
You say, “I like them that way.”
You’ve kissed my lips
With the reverence
Of a reigning queen.
And still, I sigh,
When one too many sleepless nights
I wake between your sheets.
All winter waiting,
glowing warm inside,
with welcoming windows,
defying tide, wind and snow.

Trolls maintained a loathing
malicious watch from icy
mountain galleries above
for mishaps - so called accidents.

Then house fronts sprang to life
in rainbow colours
strung like bracelet charms
around the bay, beckoning
ships whose rigging pierced the spray.
Words that flame, words that shame.
Words! Words! Words!
Words we shouldn't use.
Words politicians choose.

Words that blame, always the same.
Belligerent words, ignorant words.
Words of beauty and of song.
Words the Saxons spoke,
or some Anglian bloke.
Welsh words, Celtic words.
Words from round the world.

Words recently known to few.
Words that Wordsworth knew.
All in Oxford's Dictionary,
even meanings lost in history.
The Oxford Dictionary
The Earth is bleeding red and slow,
shuddering in a hot sweat,
cracking it's stretched skin, projectile
vomiting its rumbling guts.

My people run. Too late! Too late!
The Earth God's anger seals their fate.
Stone encased we shall remain, until
the curious unveil our pain.
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