The best-laid planets
of ice and gems
Are split into shards and stems,
past tense prisms of the survivalist sense.
And through the dense forests of kelp that keep falling
And can’t get up again to answer the calling
of mans setting up round nature’s foundation
Float stories as old as that cracker of creation,
spinning the wheel of juicy folk lore
In which immolation is a bore,
As is the spluttering of our core values and beliefs in the good of the nation,
And not nearly as important as the laying of track
to shunt the frontier of ‘progress’
One more station.
Packed together in the resourse tray
With clashes of wills, hardened under clay,
The razing agent of bread and butter decline.
Meanwhile billion dollar bills are traded for the sign: ‘This Is Mine’ (PTY, LTD),
Find your own batter ‘cos this mountain of it’s for me.’
But justice, the weight of history, inclusivity
the need to breathe in the smoldering coals of the past
And with lungs of steam to reverse the ferment,
To instead distil the need
To wipe the bloody slate clean,
Then stare through the looking glass of the spirit that we find ourselves in.
For no man is an island in waters as rough
As the swaying behemoth that outside intrusions have hinted enough
for us to need to awake from our slumber
And realize the illusion within which the number of people potentially rendered asunder
Will soon rouse even Neptune to come to our aid
Only to sift through the ruins of the gleaming Atlantis of mother of pearl we have made.