The Black Phoenix
Rigs are quiet now,
slumbering spires of steel
so cold - yet bread for many men.
Children may cry for the world's want of energy.
Towers of glass are empty now,
monuments to a better time,
of exploration, excitement, and excess,
when the world grew.
The eyes of good people are red-rimmed now,
as disbelief screams in a silent vacuum.
The only life left is the endless cycle of pumpjacks
and the hum of compressors
teasing their worthless treasures
from the dark bosom of the earth.
Everything is broken now, burned and blackened,
confused and cancerous.
Industry sleeps, but our age is not over.
Shifting now in death-throes and embers,
the black phoenix shall rise once more.
31 March 2020
Written for Coronavirus COVID-19 Cash Prize Poetry Contest sponsored by Team PoetrySoup
Copyright © J. I. Thomas F. | Year Posted 2020
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