I.
Meadows drained of the last vestige of life—
Pummeled, toppled, and drained,
Murky bastions of mud and sod
Remnants of massacre and pain.
Where do the fields go in the absence of
green?
Hulking tractors have clearly plowed this place clean;
Strange ephemera are lurking in those dried up crags
Atop mountaintops
So deserving of frost.
I want to be under a twilight sun
Where dripping meadows lush with color are stained with the violet rays of
the dying light—
Birds chirping, flying in droves over the fields, send quakes through the
Earth
Flies humming, buzzing about under the ears, send shivers through my spine
Thinking that it’s a wasp—but releasing fear,
For I know that it’s not quite the end-times.
Bring me back to purple mountain majesties!
Bring me back to dotted fields (not of grain)
For I don’t want to be in a wasteland of fear
Or strip malls and plagues—a truly decadent stain.
II.
The sea roils its frothy decadence and sweeps the tumult of sin under from
the last vestiges of man’s spurious existence
(It’s the fate we wanted)
The thunder quakes and sends waves of nerve-frying disease through the
brain and we catapult ourselves to daydreams
(It’s the fate we deserve)
The heavens accursed with blasphemy entrust humans to a fate worse than
death—
The notion of negation.