Husk

The grinding depletion of our childhood fantasies. Free verse poetry

Contemplations of the folly,
We are a never ending contradiction,
This culture of want,
It devours our days and gasps no breath,
The soul long since vanished,
Never to take angelic flight,
With scarce contribution to,
The magnificence of life.

Now a mist of grey,
Collecting our hopes, our dreams,
Spinning in its cocoon,
The husks of what we dreamt would be,
As children,
Steadfast we plod along,
Winding this massive wheel,
Till it grinds us beneath the ground.