A new decade of musings from poetry to what inspires; casting words like seed worldwide.
|I'll retitle later...
These Dying Seasons
When they release redacted files
do they preserve a pristine copy?
Is our past so corruptible, as
ink upon paper by scribes who die
with knowledge that could free
our souls from guilt and shame,
stashed away by forefathers,
propped by Machiavellian visions
for a sour world sucked
like gumdrops by candy-loving
occupants with fillings deep
to the nerves, stored in cheeks
like wintering rodents housed
in an aging oak dropping dead
branches on acidic earth, killing
a once lush, green lawn? The mower
uses less gas in these dying seasons.
if a poet won't self-censor.