What's the matter Mother World,
why are you in such
a topsy-turvy swirl?
Has Man again upset you so much?
Why is it that your face
has lost it's once flourishing green color
and your skin now blotching red,
your river'd throat aridly bled
and your inner-core rumbling hollow?
Is it because Men and Nation's
are too busy quibbling,
And greedily scrambling
over your bounteous generous donations?
That leads Man's descent
in self-destructing,
And you, your anger to vent
in quivering, belching, and lava spewing?
Has Man not his lesson's
learn't over timeless years
that their greed and actions
will result in raining acid tears?
Once every seven years appearing in red
Unfurling to spread petals to the evening air and night
Chiselled out amoungst this prickly pear world
Allowing the passing insect to stop turn and weigh your beauty and scurry on
Your rarity will not be be stolen from this vast and mostly unvisted desert
Without hangers on you feed your gorgousness with nectar unseen from within
Staying long enough to dream a worth while life
Deciding your position with unknown formula or care
Irridescence to a fault to bat or bird Shine and all strength to you
Your host will swallow you back in time but never can deny
the world's stage you struted and fretted your stuff there on
You thing of beauty a thing so sweet and aridly rare
A seven year wonder extraordinary to behold or even to wear
vividly seen through his unseeing eyes,
thoughts float, drift slow in lazy, hazy air
much like deathly ashen, oval smoke rings
leaving his aridly acrid, insomniac mouth,
there he is, the drunken, dying chain-smoker;
and they keep drifting back in silence
to the placid pool of his maimed memory:
tired tales of untaken rare opportunities,
of had it not been, of endless if and only if,
of unending what could or should have been.