Poet 10: olius_brightwell

 The wind sweeps over me,

And with it soars the birds in grace,

Leaves catch and twirl free,

Swift but not with haste.


Sudden blades cut fresh wounds - sudden wounds

in a sky of mottled gray,

The engine roars - an unearthly tune,

The machine fights its way.


Water rushes through my mind,

And my thoughts catch a drift,

The cool skies soothe my mood,

And the clouds begin to shift.


Droning metal pierces the still - against the current,

Cries bounce wild - desperate,

...Lunging to fill the silence,

Speed turns to violence.


The meadow sways as one with the breezes,

And the air drifts wherever it pleases,

In this moment all is warm and gentle,

Not even the frail leaves will to tremble.


The city sleeps as taxis coast - over shattered glass,

Street lights hang forlorn - headlights steal past,

The background hums - the city flares,

Smoking neon forever glares.


Home at last, I take the stairs,

The journey to nature did not seem fair,

An intrusion of machines, a tour behind glass,

Transportation far too fast.


But I have learned, as I sit in my machine,

It is not what I have done or what I have seen,

In fact, it is not about me,

It is about what nature showed me I could be.

The End

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