Get Your Premium Membership

Roots - The Object of Scorn

The grass is trying to squeeze back through cement cracks. Dying to breath. Though we're dying for it. Black sheets on top of dirt comforters. Soiling the soil. Beneath water boils. We need the weeds oxygin. But slay said weeds like sin. A little river of green flows through a darkened hardened lake. Walking a fake land made by mans hand. One by one a tree on every block. Standing with its dead brothers and sisters. Watching them chained together like slaves under us. Nature is fighting back. From underground it plots in its mixing pot with everyone and everythings reconnecting soul. Understanding now of what we are taking for granted. The trees know. The bushes know. The flowers, fruits and vegitables... They all know. The grass, or pawns as I may, resuface on our lawns during the time of Spring to remind us of mother natures message. But when it reaches a peak, we rain gasoline fueld machines apon the weak and defenseless. The letter is hidden. Buried underground. We've become too illiterate to open the the book our fathers have carved from small portions of the trees. Unbalanced is the radiance of Earths beauty. It is our duty to not forget our roots. Where we come from and continue to be birthed from.  Our mother Earth. Our home.

Copyright © | Year Posted 2015




Post Comments

Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem.

Please Login to post a comment

A comment has not been posted for this poem. Encourage a poet by being the first to comment.