There, I wipe the rain
From my glasses. "What
Is it?" I point out, and gaze
At the tune of my heart
To where the autumn trees
Fold into one another like soft
Lovers, wrapped in golden sheets,
Huddled against the wind.
Not a month later, I
Return to bid Autumn's lovers
Farewell to Winter. But they are
No longer bathed in gold;
The plastic sun, a sort of
Yellow lie, towers on a monolith
Where they once stood. And nearby,
A crude, concrete mockery
Complete with billowing smoke,
And a drive-through, stands
Hot-tempered and selfish
Like a wart on the nose of Love.
Nov 14, 2018
Nov 14, 2018 at 12:07 PM UTC
There, I wipe the rain
From my glasses. "What
Is it?" I point out, and gaze
At the tune of my heart
To where the autumn trees
Fold into one another like soft
Lovers, wrapped in golden sheets,
Huddled against the wind.
Not a month later, I
Return to bid Autumn's lovers
Farewell to Winter. But they are
No longer bathed in gold;
The plastic sun, a sort of
Yellow lie, towers on a monolith
Where they once stood. And nearby,
A crude, concrete mockery
Complete with billowing smoke,
And a drive-through, stands
Hot-tempered and selfish
Like a wart on the nose of Love.
A poem about greed.
#8 in the Distant Dystopia anthology.
© Lewis Hyden, 2018
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