Over on the crescent wing The bitter gales bring waves of rain: Listen. Frozen windows sing. Enraptured by the searing pain Like pestilence in hurricane. Buildings rise up to the halls Impenetrable planet-bane As summer lost, and spring withal.
Then the writhing storm-clouds bring A storm of ice and wind again: The sun rears up, but sets during. And past the steel-laden plane Silver orbs first wax, then wane Then plaster to the mighty wall Midnight buses, lane-by-lane, Of nature not, but city fool.
Ascended like a spiteful King The whispers rise, then sink in shame No sound is here, no, not a thing. Soaking in like liquor-stains The buildings survey their domain Not city-life, nor life at all; They wander in the pouring rain Where love is lost beneath the sprawl.
Tears and laughter, much the same All are whispers, doomed to fall. Dystopia without a name: Not so distant after all.
A poem about the modern age. #9 in the Distant Dystopia anthology.