Authors Note: Warning! If you are a serious person do not continue reading this. If you expose this poem to direct sunlight it might remain the same or become a little warmer. You have been warned.
Too heavy for the sky
Dirigibles collide with clouds
Filled with bricks, concrete in nature
Crazy birds walk home having missed their flight
Still alive, dreaming of reality
Why waste time on thinking?
Why are there no traffic signs in heaven?
Why is there so much blue in the sky?
If people were meant to fly they would not
Sleeping in the park is much more rewarding
Ask the pigeon perched on a statue of Lincoln
Doing its business like a religion
Dusk, prone for a head-on collision
For the trees brace themselves
Huddle as tribesmen to swat away
The human dirigibles taking laps
Around this pathetic attempt
To rape nature for commerce
With intimate kiosks acting as
Mini brothels looking to get laid (and paid, at 70% off)
I hear the trees whimper slightly
Marginalized for the margins and cracks looming
Inside each retail fish* tank
Let's choose to ignore them
Let's oxidize together
For the trees need this more than us
Because guess who's left standing
When the brothels close
From diseased indulgence
And reddish overuse
When the game's over
After last rites granted
And the lights go out
When we simply need to gaze
Towards the heavens and
Honor these angelic trunks
Of tantric glory.
(10/23/14)
*replacement word; actual is not allowed by site standards.
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