On a Line from Frederic Prokosch

o the black bewildered eyes of death
look on as flowers blossom,
day breaks and noon comes, and poor
poor death dies each moment
life slips in, slips away, recycles
itself from the folds of his flesh
burgeoning now these millennia
neath the bowels of his mother Earth
he gluts and sates and purges
bewildered as the table grows bounteous
and ever his ravening appetite
even as the drillers suck his blood
to run their internal combustion
engines racing over, bescarring
mother earth, and yet advance, advance,
advance the reapers of death’s fields
apostates and proselytizers all, though
they think the strife they strive toward
and away from somehow serves life,
death is fed and glutted and yet somehow
never can be filled. one day each will
fall here or there and downward stare
into black bewildered eyes of death.

David M Pitchford
26 Dec 2011


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