Wastelands

Wastelands

So barren are the wastelands
where we lived our lives,
built by workmen's calloused hands,
carved by surgeon's knives.

An arid desert void of life,
time begged them to take care,
no drums were playing or the fife
for car lots that were bare.

Nature's gifts had all been wasted
for ever bigger profits,
forever business barons tasted
riches for their pockets.

In the alleys thieves would wait
for unsuspecting prey,
to work for nothing was their fate
for souls they sold away.

When a witness came to bear,
with all the truth he'd seen,
no one seemed to really care,
gone, were the woods so green.

Underneath the burning sun,
they sat and watched the scene,
when they really should have one
more layer of sun screen.

Nothing, would they ever fear,
held safe in Nature's arms,
no one guessed the end was near
as they heard the first alarms.

When the final man did fall,
silence filled the naked dawn;
none were left to fix it all
when all the lights were gone.

© Copyright 2007 T.L.Finch (UN: t.l.finch at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
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