Email Poem

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Poem

Strange people 
are scurrying
here to there 
each toiling in odd
obsolete jobs 
I watch the timbers lean
to and fro 
around the ancient grove
I find it odd that the trees grow 
not where they stand 
only bare limbs and broken fruits 
strange people hid 
their large watering eyes
blind to words of 
oppression and opportunities 
odd jobs and absent divinity
burning humanity 
trees 
tower drift in the mist across 
a wasted landscape
obtuse objects drift absently
over bare auto parks
shopping malls as figures 
wonder absently 
stumbling strangers, odd, elongated 
figures from obscure and ancient jobs 
I see leaves in the dark 
lit by moonbeams 
drift to and fro 
falling 
falling 
in the obsolescence 
of the grove, they stand not 
in the moment 
but grow in fractured time 
broken fruits lie rotten 
upon the ground
strange people will be picking 
up the pieces
in another few hours
as oily black eyes 
stare out from windows 
in burning houses, absent 
in divinity’s sublime 
strangers linger here, there 
I find it very odd
oblivion objects 
float on ancient skylines.

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