Poetry

Drunk, in the maddening humidity,
I shall stride, over and over,
Transcending fresh sentiments:
My young heart burning bright.
 
Passing old houses, new roads,
Lost hedgerows... my eyes become blind
As a strange kind of darkness rolls in.
 
Once bare yet full, turns full,
Yet empty: as industrial seeds plant
New crops. The cost of fresh life
Never raises the right questions.