Friday, August 27, 2010

Tall Tales

Stoic, solid, immovable truth
With drought stricken fringes
Impervious to my actions
Standing guard
Or passive observers?
Non-violent vigilantes
Sigh deeply in the shallow breezes
Coughing on humanity's pungent odor
Suicidal maniacs
Or cogs in the machine?
Gaia's fingertips stretching
Towards the heavens
Save me, she cries
But littered cosmic highways
Block her voice
She slowly withdraws
Into herself
When no longer guarded
By her graceful hands
Will we then question
Our momentum?

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