04-25-2015, 01:37 PM
The Abstracted Jackhammer
He's sick of concrete;
sick of belittled gems
angling prayer toward the sun,
to one day again, reflect more than grey.
He's sick of huddled grains of sand,
squatting between the toes of content,
rallying to erode rest;
drunk and conceited with numbers.
He's sick of Styrofoam salads
promising the sun,
while the earth forever gives birth
under a cloud of speculation.
He's sick of barnacles
lobbying for free trade at low tide;
stowed away on apathy—
under Titanic immunity.
He's sick of dull words
playing whore in a Bull market;
seducing both mammon and men
with the same loose lips.
He's sick of us pitching disaster
to terrified men—
just to get them to work on time.
He's sick of concrete;
sick of belittled gems
angling prayer toward the sun,
to one day again, reflect more than grey.
He's sick of huddled grains of sand,
squatting between the toes of content,
rallying to erode rest;
drunk and conceited with numbers.
He's sick of Styrofoam salads
promising the sun,
while the earth forever gives birth
under a cloud of speculation.
He's sick of barnacles
lobbying for free trade at low tide;
stowed away on apathy—
under Titanic immunity.
He's sick of dull words
playing whore in a Bull market;
seducing both mammon and men
with the same loose lips.
He's sick of us pitching disaster
to terrified men—
just to get them to work on time.