Poetry isn’t my forte, I freely admit it.
But sometimes it’s the only way the words will come out.
This world where money grows on trees
where knowledge is the hollow timber
branches, branching, spreading –
not straight but crooked, twisted, limber –
outward, onward, and the bedding
of this forest is the long forgotten
of ages past
now trampled underfoot and rotten
slow and strong forsaken
for weak and fast
And in the shade where we now dwell
of a Sun so strong it lit the world
of warmth that made the green things grow
of light that made the dark uncurl
and flee, but here it is not so –
here is only the everlasting night
and greed and death
that chokes and clogs, consumes, a blight
upon our frail frames until
we take our final breath.