Meet the Man Out Beyond the Tree Line
We are war with the past forgotten; war for concrete edges.
We cannot feel or fail the forest, though destined to battle there.
White and grit like bone
Lost and found like home
Product of the unproductive
Won't be led but shown
We are peace no comfort lasting, peace in simple soulless shells.
We’ll secure a sainted sentry, to survey on our sleeping will.
Grey washed filter screens
Centered in the in-between
Cityscaping soil scraping
Man in making broke machines
We are at the dawn and waking; dawning over tree line breaks.
We have rustled steel and wire, to sow fleshly frames in fertile days.
Notes from an essay on the man eventually replacing machine... that I fully intend on finishing someday.
— The End —