Trees and Concrete

I think they’ll call me
Heretic, or call me when
they secretly want my bed.
I don’t lay with corporations,
conglomerations, companies
that cut our lives
into scheduled shreds.

Put us in plastic, cubicles,
Let our roots grow into
Cold dead carpets
that don’t show the stains
of our slow-rot.

Some soar from rooftops
Like eagles of freedom,
America is bald.
Old, white and phallic,
men and towers.

We have chained,
To trees yes, but mostly
White fences and TV screens.
Bonded to a minted crucible.

Where our lives are,
Melted and pressed
Into numbers and cents,
Senseless and mute we are.

Marched into done-up buttons
closed brief cases
into nooses daily around necks.
Hung as our hope flickers
Like corpse coloured fluorescent tubes.

Resigned to a life of getting
by and told to buy
to escape the getting by. Escape
into dreams, fantasies,
in books and movies.
Into brand new TV’s,
showing same old stories,
we bought it yesterday to
escape today.

Cry out, muted eagles.
Croak ravens of nihilism,
clipped wings, blinds
of indifference and distraction.

Soar, to the sky
where the sun blazes.
Twice burns in purifying pyre.
See beauty, see revolution.
See the Bastille burn again.
See the rise of souls
out of soot and factory smoke
And into dawn,
birdsung from tree tops.

One thought on “Trees and Concrete

  1. Pingback: Trees and Concrete | Occupy Wall Street by Platlee

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