Global Change
Every time I walk in the woods
I am anxious until I see
The random flower
Assuring me these woods will be here
Tomorrow.
With all the talk of global change
I am conscious that I am becoming
A hypochondriac
And my phobia is not water
Rising over the boundary of sand
To submerge the city
There can be no other strategy
For spring cleaning
The violence and greed stains
Like the horroe on Macbeth's hand
My horror is not that
But rather my lung dessicated
Gasping, choking on the gravel of atmosphere
After the sun like a pump has sucked
All the air out of the bronchioles of leaves.
O when I come this way again
Please let that last little flower be there.
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment
Turn off ads, get more exposure for your poetry, and get more features with a
Premium Membership.
