To Yeats
Things Fall Apart,
The centre Cannot Hold
There! the Sun gathers mold-
left to its doom, dew-gray, dagger a-heart.
O Yeats! if you were here to behold
Nations a-throat, men a-hate
O Yeats! if you beheld our earth-
setting in the East, back to Dust.
The rains sob down acids-
Burning brimestones in ghastly contempt.
The waters meandering in somnolence
As Nature yearns for Dusk.
We then are doomed,
Earthlings reduced to pitiful fibres
By our own slick hands,
used in milking dawn's fruits.
There weeps the knell
Hereforth from Clay steps hell
given Breathe by our cupidity-
Are we then in this insanity?
O Yeats! here I choke in want of air,
here I reach for Byzantium's care.
Nostalgia steals over my very soul-
As I behold Our Earth in the claws of Death.
Copyright © Gerald Nforche | Year Posted 2013
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