Refuge

I could catalog all of the ills of my world.
Haven't I already? Haven't I said that I'm
Sick of the nation that made itself empire,
Grew old, and, now, in its death throes,
Is riddled with maggots, corpulent, white,
And whiny? Haven't I said that I'm tired
Of marketing gimmicks and self-serving
Lies, of people who leave me, and those
Who won't? Haven't I proven I cannot
Be happy? I can't, but, sometimes, I feel
Some contentment. When I'm on this
Terrace, alone, looking over the trees on
The bluff, the river below, and the fields
On the far side, rippling, when I am gazing
Beyond them, to the horizon, so flat and
Low, and up to the blue and enormous
Sky, and I'm deafened by buzzing cicadas,
I miss neither mountains nor oceans, nor
All the attractions of city streets. I am
Fine where I am, and unable to name
Any ill that exists in my world.



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 28 times
Written on 2010-09-02 at 12:37

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