Anthony Bianco Poet Prose Poetry

Plastic veins and copper less pockets

Things are moving at a rabid pace.
Motorists throttling throaty compact cars.
Coming up on you at Mach speed like their lives are on fire.
Like their time is more precious than mine.

Notice the clusters of yellow-vested workers 
digging up the earth, laying miles of line everywhere.
A couple of them were in my backyard unannounced.
For two days they worked in silence.
I opened the drapes on the picture window
to let them know that I know what they're doing 
And is probably no dang good for the people.
They glanced over and continued laying plastic veins into the black earth.
Letting me know that they don't care that I know what they're doing 
is no dang good for the people.

In their frenzy, they trampled my infant rose bushes to death. They are death.
Just like those chem trails stitched across our sky are death.

Things are picking up pace.
They've already erased Honest Abe.
No more copper in the pocket.
Silver and the greenback are next.

Plastic only-more control-a globalist's wet dream.
They want to know when you're buying
what you're buying 
and how much of it you're buying and at what price.
Restrictions, red-flagging, and rationing are next.
They'll say it's for our own good; they are our slow death.

Big Brother is not only watching but is smothering us.
They want to kill the middle class and individuality,
Cull the herd, shame and arrest the songbird in all of us.

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