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Next Season's Crops

Quietly...

a new future

races past my attention.

As thin as,

a liberals funding

chased by an old

and toothless past.

 

Slipping changes by...

in bite sized pieces

now so regularly

that some pass ...

barely tasted....

almost inhaled.

 

Tides of modern history

are beating

rhythmically

on ugly

worn out barriers

affecting all,

both near and far

As bright and untouchable

as the new moon.

 

The looming certainty of...

what now seems

inevitable.

Lingers...

not quite accepting

it's progression

and now is both...

dragging it's feet...

and clumsily

rushing over

what's left of

ancient weights...

that lay so heavy...

so long....'

 

Equality and Justice

are hummed to

and called forth...

to not simply usher in

a few changes...

but navigate the floodgates

of what our world

now dare to dream of...

The last of the Boomer's

are having their say

and the idealistic. psychedelic,

poets and builders

dream through a "stoney" mist

and contemplate

next season's crops

and the affect they may have

on moral turpitude.

Finally.

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Written by
suzanne-penn
American
Published
Jun 15, 2014
Lines·Words
54·167
Permission

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