BlemishedLike a teen who has a pimple, I am pouting.
My whole world's disfigured by the hand
Of man. The hills around have been reshaped.
The river's bed is not its own. The flood
Plain at its side is higher, fenced and bare,
A fallow field, and, just beyond that field
Are grids of asphalt and unsightly homes.
The sound of traffic drowns out birds.
In fact, all wildlife is gone, replaced by
Bipeds in their cars, and trash along
Their roads. I miss the chances I once had
To find myself with naked nature, gaze at its
Unblemished face, and be at peace, too
Satisfied to pout.
Poetry by Lawrence Beck
Read 24 times
Written on 2020-02-04 at 20:38
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