A Poem Robert Frost Would Have Written if He Lived Today, And, Like Me, Didn’t Want to…

another day passes as clocks refuse to tick

as subtle things, you’d like to miss, for once, seem to click

while gardeners with pale skin, green thumbs, and blue eyes

knock the world’s unorthodox problems down to size

and nothing around, or even out there, truly change

but instead, tilt on its axis staying parallel to the same.

although, another day timorously retreats, slipping idly by

strangers hang, like musk of lust in bars, in vacant doorways

awaiting a certain, peculiar feeling: of love, or loss – both doth die.

and upon an ocean’s reflection of timid skies

there lies, on the green land of the earth

grave diggers, along with grave robbers, and the one in the hearse:

to think if only time could reverse what the grave will rob

then again, staying alive is our only true job

until we’re past the last chapter,

and we are filled with angel’s holy laughter;

we all know modern life is disaster

a product of our obsession to living so much faster.

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