Crimson Marks
Winter’s hoar…frost..
has bled the maples
Crimson, marks
the torn throat of morn.
Summer’s sullen forays
have scared the natural
blush of Fall.
Would the wood recover
from the toxic fumes of man?
Radiant the sun which bombs
the atmosphere, a blight of cancer
upon the uncloaked skin…
Mutant and mutating man
warring harbinger of doom.
Where sand and soil
and microbes had cleansed
the refuse of man waits…
clogging the arteries of bipeds
overflowing into the roots of forest
Unarmed
Rooted
Clinging
to the seed of an apothecary life.
Feeding on the vials unturned
draining into the Fall finery
a mottled military camouflage
sickly green, to burnt brown emerges.
And all that’s left of life
bleeds with the maple.
Crimson, marks
the torn throat of morn.
Copyright © Debbie Guzzi | Year Posted 2011
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