Hawks are searching for the attacker,
Butterflies are fleeing,
Squirrels are hiding their young,
The birds are still building their nests,
The caterpillars are being shaken awake from their afternoon doze.
As the attacker chops their home in half,
The hawks stop searching,
The butterflies stop to gawk,
The squirrels are gone,
The birds' eggs are crushed,
And the caterpillars are dead.
The great life giver is dead.
The one with the green leaves that the caterpillars ate for brunch,
And the hidden crannies that the young squirrels would hide after their morning of acorns and chittering,
And the lovely hooks of branches the birds lay their beautiful nests on,
And the twigs the butterflies sat on for rest stops,
And the home of the protective hawks at the very top.
Now the butterflies are gone,
The squirrels are dead,
As well as the caterpillars,
The birds have no young,
And the hawks feel unworthy of the life giver.
The survivors of the great machine attacker are now homeless.
And now all that is left is the ringing of metal slicing through wood in the fellow trees' ears.
Now comes the new life givers-
The ones that recycle the old to replenish the new,
The termites and mushrooms and snails and slugs and millipedes and centipedes and moss.
Now they have the job of cleaning the mess of the metal machine.
~HoO_and_bands
8/1/15 9:01 PM
YOU ARE READING
Paralyzed
PoetryOkay, this started out as a thought book, turned into a rant book, and so far, it's become a thought book again. How many other changes will it go through, I don't know, nor do I care. This is sort of a public journal but not really because I hate t...
