Steel girders, bare, arise a crosshatch grid
from wooded mounds.  By millions, birds nest safe
above sharp, forest-prowling fangs and eyes
that slink among still, shadowed limbs.  Deep night:
the hollow light of stars above.  No moon
is needed.  Hunter and hunted alike
see forms, smell countless others, hear each stir
from rest.  A cry and struggle.  Crunching bone.
Torn flesh consumed through warning growls.  Birds blink,
impassive, perched on I-beams, acres deep
and high and wide.  New gargoyles for a new
dark age, their dung piled deep beneath their roosts.


One thought on “Dystopian

  1. This poem could easily be turned into a sonnet – the non-rhyming type. 🙂


    PS I am well aware of the sonnet rhyming scheme; however, I have heard that some of the modern poets are losing the rhyme. a thought

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