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Dream or reality comes to mind at a glimpse through the glass.
Our "superior" minds, reckless in thought, cause too much pain to withhold.
Are the trees hibernating? Is the ground sick with grief?
My inner soul cries silently pondering destruction at may.
Such sweet smells lost to a grim, bleak stench.
Skies scorched black from anguish and betrayal.
Who was the deciever? Who made life-fullfilling sacrifices?
Backs turned, optimists pushed aside, God hides behing the cloudy curtain.
Mind games are at hand, being played over with uncertainty.
Being molded to our pleasure without remorse or true gratification.
Life withers away with no hope for renewal. All is desolate.
Does rebirth for a new age seem obsolete?
Death comes as a silk sheath, melting into the pores of our world.
And dimensional journey can't be used to escape this vitality of fear and misery.
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Lauren Minis
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Lauren Minis | Sep 30th, 2004
This poem I wrote in response to the picture on the front cover of Bill McKibbens "End of Nature." This poem also depicts my feelings about those who wrong nature.
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