I hear your evaporating voice
From stone cold depths
"Had to make a living - no choice..."
You come back to us
As the foul-smelling seed
Of a nation's infinite need
For growth that shrinks our souls
Sending men down black holes
Lying back to back
In the dim doom of death
No light for them
From funnels full of ash
Embracing their tomb of rock
Smothered, crushed
Gasping for air
Some day we will mine
Your bones for chalk
As if you were never there.
© shaun patrick green 2011
No comments:
Post a Comment