Milwaukee Nights
The sky trembles,
the trees aflame,
naked under the spotlight,
but they are not the dancers...
It is those innocent strangers,
shuffling like Kings and Queens upon the deck,
and I, the joker in the pack,
plot with the trees,
all of us about to crack,
and open our trunks,
gather our leaves,
and branch out,
We would, oh we Wood!
We are stoic in our own right,
we never changed,
we just grew,
ingesting the pollution,
we had no choice...
So mother Earth,
there is no need to raise your voice,
we are what we are, not because we chose our path,
we are what we are, at the hands of fate,
and her wrath;
her wreath of tangled wild-flowers,
dried and knotted in a human shape,
hung on the door like a martyr in the gallows...
Those plants couldn't fight back!
God damned pansies,
lily-livered as they were,
they really couldn't scream,
nor let out some bark of dissaproval,
they submitted to fate,
to the cold uncaring hands of the universe,
with her distant starry eyes,
somewhere far beyond our grasp,
like celestial fireflies...
Just like the street lights,
with their dry orange lamps,
flickering, on those strange
Milwaukee Nights.
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