An Unholy Machine

Poetry & Prose March 21, 2017

Leaves fall dead onto the cotton cushion, leaves from Spring rain once proud now choked by a scorching sun. As another leaf falls I observe the passing of time. Humanity made repulsive as the orchestra of death and life plays on. Where we once sat to commune she will continue. I am a cancer amidst a beautiful land and still I am no threat to her movement. In eighty years time I too will decompose as I slowly am now. Yet my small being has the audacity to seek shade from a tree. My ancestors have taken the shade of the tree and asked for a bench so we may sit and ask for shade. Ever moving towards more we find that we know and have less. We carve a linear path dissecting the balance of an already balanced system. We cut and pull, prod and poke to see inside as leaves fall in front of us. Oh the calamity that man has created in an attempt to understand the passing of leaves.

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