Anew, rebuild,
Upset and disturb,
That land which had no choice.
You lick
And pick,
Plunder forever.
There is no pause,
No stuttering.
The wheels,
They churn
And the cowbells ring
Into the sky,
Holed and dry.
We whistle
As we steam in heat
Which rises, boundless
For the mirrored peaks
Which crumble.
Ice-picks peck
The slush-smothered pups
In the melting pot
Of productivity.
This is our home
Where we squeeze
And shutter
Our beliefs
In silo’d motifs
We’ve outgrown.
The red ghosts loom
In the cavernous gloom
We are fools to imagine
A better contraction
Of love, unrequited
And still.
#365DaysOfPoetry