Where can one wander,
beyond,
in virgin green lands,
your clutching grasps?
What can one think,
outside
in dangerous periphery,
your ready-made ideas?
Who can one trust,
within,
while sacredness lies denuded,
Your ring-webbed networks?
How can one escape,
without,
into fresh cooling waters,
machination of your innerworkings
When can we go,
back,
to the litter fires made from your stylized decades
And relentless present fashions?
Words become failings, rasping like gramophones
Shrugged off as a relic imperfect
uncomfortably, I’m reminded of
dirt well-established under cracked fingernails
pangs of acne, visibly raw
disease as unease
while we-waxed shells collect fading whispers
thinned down by chemicals
I’d rather forget you exist as a painkiller
Voids recalling your noticed absence
Just leave us to stack worthless coinage
And bills overprinted, diluted
While we drain all our rivers,
Stranding the helpless
and level the mountains,
top all the trees,
And poison
then harvest
The oceanlife wilds
Try hiding from metal-tipped heroes
desperately venturing to edges on maps of confusion,
Imposing explosions to eek out the brink.
And bribe village edlers
With top-down prescriptions
Of operative lies. | RDO
Word weaver. Much to consider.