Rigs are quiet now,
slumbering spires of steel
so cold - yet bread for many men.
Children may cry for the world's want of energy.
Towers of glass are empty now,
monuments to a better time,
of exploration, excitement, and excess,
when the world grew.
The eyes of good people are red-rimmed now,
as disbelief screams in a silent vacuum.
The only life left is the endless cycle of pumpjacks
and the hum of compressors
teasing their worthless treasures
from the dark bosom of the earth.
Everything is broken now, burned and blackened,
confused and cancerous.
Industry sleeps, but our age is not over.
Shifting now in death-throes and embers,
the black phoenix shall rise once more.
31 March 2020
Written for Coronavirus COVID-19 Cash Prize Poetry Contest sponsored by Team PoetrySoup
Categories:
compressors, dark, death, fire, pain,
Form: Free verse
The city simmers in the sunlight bright
tall buildings coming to house hunter's plight
cooped up housing demand, not going to fade
Some sides are lit up and others basking in the shade
Cool rooms abuzz with sound of compressors
fanning the heat away, in the shady part lesser
a strange uneasiness is in the air
with the long summer cloud clear.
High temperatures cool off in the evenings
to come back again next day avenging
heating everything on its way raging
Tall buildings hinder cloud formation
no heeding: this bit of information
Categories:
compressors, abuse, change, city, conflict,
Form: Epigram
pressing for
time s/he twitches the knobs
COMPRESSORS ON?
Categories:
compressors, life,
Form: Free verse