The Windmill
If it moves, it moves slowly,
Groaning
Through it all,
Protesting.
Groaning
Through it all,
Protesting.
Like Atlas, it holds our little world.
Shielding
Us from urban interlopers
Threatening
The sanctity of our town and country.
Yet we still hear
The dreams of
A seven year-old boy,
Gazing
At the burning red fire truck
Hungrily, saying
"I want to be
Just like them!"
Instead enslaved
By amber bottles.
Like his father before him,
Slumping
In the chair,
Staring
Blankly at the wall the bank
Will confiscate.
The only life is the lit cigarette in
His hands. He would not
Fight the fire; He ignited it,
Devouring, drowning
His lifeless body in Miller Lite,
Dying...
Until
The
Next
Go
‘Round.
Shielding
Us from urban interlopers
Threatening
The sanctity of our town and country.
Yet we still hear
The dreams of
A seven year-old boy,
Gazing
At the burning red fire truck
Hungrily, saying
"I want to be
Just like them!"
Instead enslaved
By amber bottles.
Like his father before him,
Slumping
In the chair,
Staring
Blankly at the wall the bank
Will confiscate.
The only life is the lit cigarette in
His hands. He would not
Fight the fire; He ignited it,
Devouring, drowning
His lifeless body in Miller Lite,
Dying...
Until
The
Next
Go
‘Round.
#Unreal #Poem #SmallTown #Windmill #LittleProgress #Cycle #ConfiscatedWill #RuralRealities #Audio
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