A lone clump of morning glories pierce the ashen, frozen sod, as dead leaves lilt, clinging still to a few remaining trees, swaying syncopated on the breeze.
I thought it strange to see leaves like these on trees in Spring, but no stanger than the light of noon at midnight, which took my friends, and brought what I had thought would be endless Winter.
I wonder if the morning’s glory will germinate or seed – as I worry that the only one alive is me.
Nothing on the radio – not since the EMP
Alone and feeling close to death I wonder how this calamity occurred
I recall the old refrain and it rattles though my soul and brain – more despairing with each word
And I shout that misguiding lie through the hardened, morning rain
“Freedom isn’t free”
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After the “long winter”
March 25, 2008 at 2:59 am (Poetry, Writing) (America, Anarchism, Apocalypse, Culture, Hippies, Poetry, Social Commentary, War)
A lone clump of morning glories pierce the ashen, frozen sod, as dead leaves lilt, clinging still to a few remaining trees, swaying syncopated on the breeze.
I thought it strange to see leaves like these on trees in Spring, but no stanger than the light of noon at midnight, which took my friends, and brought what I had thought would be endless Winter.
I wonder if the morning’s glory will germinate or seed – as I worry that the only one alive is me.
Nothing on the radio – not since the EMP
Alone and feeling close to death I wonder how this calamity occurred
I recall the old refrain and it rattles though my soul and brain – more despairing with each word
And I shout that misguiding lie through the hardened, morning rain
“Freedom isn’t free”
Like this: