words Shania Parker
She screams into an abyss of compromising invaders
She screams upon her hedonistic children
Her eruption is of a future and foreboding acrimony
Where patience and serendipity do not align
Where voice and parade are barely adequate
Where a white-collar is bloodshot red
Where action is sleeping—but not dead.
Where the earths tongue is severed by man
When a call shrieked out of helplessness is as derelict and as livid as she is
Our call will be idle
The canals will have closed
The shriek wont travel far
But the reverberation of her end will scream through to the heavenly body
It will be a bellowing silence
And a heedless walk through a crooked disaster
Our footprints—greener but not greater—covering hers.
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