III.

From the rocky shores of grey western coastlines

To the dusty plains, the bread basket of the country;

In insane asylums, in restless slums with smiles in the dark bent, crooked

Like the interstate, the artery of cities lacking heart

In the back of cop cars cursing the necessity of order,

While men in black suits pitch products to a nation unsure of itself,

Thin grave faces scramble out doors leading towards the highway

And the ocean over the transient hills beyond sprawling centers,

Sinners imitate god in the holiness of morning sunshine

As the grasses trees flowers moss grow in shade sometimes

Without love, only light and the business men take

Their ties off and admire their wristwatch

Forgetting the time, the time when life and living mattered.

4 thoughts on “III.

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