This really matters…

Who can pasture

The flock of my words,

Those trend setters, some will say,

Who kill the grass

To smell the hay…

There’s no place for you,

O, shepherds of my words,

Trough this squeaky forest of wooden swords…

This green pasture of bar coded grass blades

Is not for you, nor are those virtual shades.

You show some allergies

To that optimized blue of the sky

Not to low, not too high…

Leave those stereo nightingales

And this computerized dark,

I want my words together

In the poem of this ark…

Don’t rest by those

Y2K compliant still waters,

Allow some death

In your breath!

This really matters…


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