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Nov 2018
Cold rain sweeps in volleys
Down miles of frozen glass,
Pooling at the feet of a world
In which there is
No air.

Smog, fog, and vales of nightly
Gales throw splashes of rain,
Pummeling windows with bullets
Which dye the sky
Dark grey.

Somewhere above us, the shrill
Cry of a mourning crow
Is not heard. These days,
There are only
Escrows.
A poem about commercialism.
#1 in the Distant Dystopia anthology.

© Lewis Hyden, 2018
Lewis Hyden
Written by
Lewis Hyden  18/M/Bristol, UK
(18/M/Bristol, UK)   
  2.9k
     SamanthaX, Bo, PoetryJournal, --- and Shannon Butler
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