Wednesday, November 21, 2007

New poem

The Call

London had it right
The primal living
The call
survival
Gold rush of living
We aren't far off
From our
Grunting ancestors
But still
The call
It sounds
And we are
Mainly deaf
Softened and weak
We no longer
Ache for survival
For the hunt
For the base joys
Of wild living
We are a complication
Master of nothing
There is nothing
Wild left To be mastered
Or to master us,
What a shame
What a damn shame.

No comments: