The wind is howling overhead with whistling,
Violently screaming down the empty road
Making a wild storm of dust choking
the health from those who try to bear the load.
Garbage is blowing into dirty piles,
The scum upraised of consumerism
Thrown out from their ordered receptacles
as results of our capitalism.
The buried leaves by snow been forgotten,
Now pile again in greys and muddy browns,
Festering openly with a rotten
stupifying cold stench on greening ground.
A muck alike the the dirt left by a war,
The violent war of nature for itself,
with groaning for a healing from the scar,
longing for creational, nursing health.
Telephone poles left listlessly over,
Signs all broken by rushing wind,
Empty baskets tumbling everywhere,
And walkers striving against the heavy din.
And inside powers gone, the cold sitting
Of dim, twilight empty evening that
For eternity waits for nights coming,
Staring at candle dripping with quiet.
Silence the electrical tick of clocks
and constant never ceasing connections,
forced moment, briefly freed from the tocks,
Only able to see your reflection.
The sun still shines above the roaring storm,
which after all will never last the night.
Even a cloud of dust can’t hide the warm
life giving rays of powerful sun so bright.
Analogica Entis 