Poetry (words)


Time to heal, to hear without being told. A bend in the path built by time and footfall, a shelter for the growth of spring. Sunlight still low, still blinding when these shadows yield. Its warmth welcomed like the spark of cherished memories.

The scars of humanity are scattered here, sight and sound of our discarded past. Minefields of the future now these signs we leave behind. These emblems of all the things we have. 

“Money doesn’t grow on trees” so let’s plant satellites instead and choke the land with our incessant culture of waste. Let’s chop and burn, let’s climb ladders built by bloodthirsty corporates. Let’s immerse ourselves in the monster we’ve created….or

We could walk a different path. 


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