Perhaps, We have a worldview, that has turned a bit myopic.
Perhaps, We need a checkup from a doctor for Our optics,
Perhaps, We need for them to write Us out a new prescription, then
Perhaps, We'd see the truth in life that's written in inscription,

Perhaps, the Earth is weeping somberly, but We don't care to listen,
Perhaps, it warns us of Our doom when global profits are our mission
Perhaps, the World is run by men, whose only drive is for themselves
Perhaps, the few will **** the many, just for monetary wealth,

Perhaps, We're all too blind to understand the implications,
Perhaps, a future fraught with poverty and war is what We're facing
Perhaps, a different train of thought, is faintly running by adjacent,
Perhaps, it's one that wrests its life from the stagnation of complacence

Perhaps, We're living forms of life that have been cast inside a mold
Perhaps, estrangement from each other causes Our Hearts to grow cold
Perhaps, all concentrated power's an illusion, We behold,
Perhaps, We all could take it back, if We'd stop doing what We're told

Perhaps, Our Being is unique, and isn't something predefined,
Perhaps, Our priorities in life should they themselves be redefined,
Perhaps, Our voices are of import, and should not be undermined,
Perhaps, We all should organize, and build a world of new design

Perhaps, it is the Media that keeps Us all divided,
Perhaps, We should act neighborly and strive to be united,
Perhaps, in living as a People, We would find Ourselves delighted, and
Perhaps, We'd change the status quo, if We would only try to fight it.

Calligraphy of geese
against the sky--
    the moon seals it.

Around my white vinyl house
Is scattered an assortment of mills:
Motley brick bones
With salted ****** cement cartilage
And cracked, uninhabited eyes
Staring down apathy and progress.

Pillars that once asphyxiated the sky
With black and grey
Now sigh dust into the breeze;
The dust of men and machines
Long-silent and long-still.

Poisonous paint peels off of memories
As cancerous flakes lazily snow from the ceiling.
Snake skins of creeping ruddy corrosion climb pistons
And embrace wheels.

Vines strangle arteries and musty furniture.
Trees breach the foundation
And claw open the rotted eaves,
Eager to drink the sticky August heat.

A crow grips a window-frame
    Which has long outlived its purpose
And casts a numb eye over her domain.

A breath of moisture in the air:
A nor'easter approaches.

The bricks of the human world are dying.

Others are being born as we speak,
But others still are dying
And the world is dying and changing with them.

Some are dying in bleachy hospital rooms
With blood-smeared hands,
But others are not.

The world is dying in fields
With a back lain-upon by fresh harvest,
Hands caked in loam
And a face creased by sun.

The world is dying in factories,
Gazing its brains out through the smog
And over clamorous machinery,
Bleeding tears into cheap t-shirts.

The world is dying in offices,
Dreams pulled out and splayed about
Like a salmon's innards
Upon the printer-paper butcher board.

The world is dying at sea,
With salt-crusted hair
And burning, split calluses,
Beety droplets staining the passive blue.

The world dies in death:
In rusty mill bones
And hollow farms
Rented out to memories.

The world is dying,
And where is the ceremony?
Where is the procession?
Where is the twenty-one gun salute?

The world goes into many graves
Packaged in a homemade box,
With Duty fulfilled
And not a single note of "Taps".

When dark clouds diminished the day
and rain carved moon craters on the river
we were drenched beneath a tree.

Her hand upon mine was more than words could say
but made me once more a hardened believer
in love's miracle of bridging hearts quietly.

Tick, tock. Tick, tock.
Has nobody realised that it can drive a man insane?
Wasting your life away watching the rotating hands.
Daylight Savings just seems like a cruel joke.

Tick, tock. Tick, tock.
For Christ’s sake, make it stop.
A constant reminder that we’re dying.
Drinking too much alcohol and writing lazy poems.
We’re young now but it will watch us grow old.

Tick, tock. Tick, tock.
Tick, tock. Tick, tock.
No more.

Rip it from the wall,
Torture a confession out of it,
Leave it broken on the floor,
Shattered like the hearts of feeble lovers who let it **** them.

We shall overcome.

Found my roots, became a tree..
now I have all these birds who sit and **** on me

~****