Our weeping mother
Hearken to the hushed cries
of a waning world which slowly dies
The bleeding skies and melted ice
a minor price for mankind's vice
Earth's engine is fueled by corporatism
the cogs oiled by blood of cannibalism
As we eat our mother and fill ourselves
with her drying tears from poisoned wells
Forests in bloom are burnt in rapid fires
the scarlet smoke stains surrounding mires
Where dead snipes dance in wicked ways
to tell man of his numbered days
For one day the carriage rolls into town
ridden by a silent shape in blackened gown
And crowds stand lifeless in his gaze
as he plays their solemn serenade
With hungry hands the figure knocks
on doors marked with the sign of a cross
Poetry by Tim Ohman
Read 662 times
Written on 2013-09-27 at 16:12
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