This road I walk
isn't paved with yellow bricks.
There are no gold pavements,
slick shining sun rays.
Just streets
where feet stick.
to gum grim coating.
footprints set like concrete
Litter strewn ashtrays,
coated in sick. Rat infested,
twisted dreamscapes.
These grey
dingy landscapes
where nightmares seep.
These granite slabs
blend with the cans
being kicked along.
Would a magician
be able to twist this,
with a flick of the wriat?
Would Martians look
in disgust if they visit?
Before slipping
on the oil slick
cold wet vomit.
Or could
we instead
build
this place
on paper bricks?
Not dreams best left dead.
Let the foundations
feel life, not zombie hands
reaching from below.
Let the word stones
slowly melt
into the dying ground.
Feeding the soil beneath
causing grasses to grow.
Make this a carpeted concourse
of words, to help people converse.
As they glance away
from phone screens,
notice the grand universe
and take in the show.
Thanks for reading
Please take a few moments
to check out my new book "Poetic Outlaw"
available from Amazon
https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B0CVQ5F9K8/
No comments:
Post a Comment