53 (ellingson)

Rays bake freshly turned ground on an August day
Moves like a plague with no regret of what's been wiped away
Carving out rows after after rows; they're all the same
For a moment I burn, then it passes and I'm on my way

How many views of the world can there be?

How much can be sold?
Too quickly, wipe out the old
Why rip out what's grown?
How much green will be stole?

How can I own?
Should I feel cold?
Instead i just watch
As it consumes the whole

Another junk mail conversation with a neighbor today
Always a struggle to find something new or clever to say
A smile, a wave, discuss the chance of rain
One rarely dives deeper in this place of fashionable names

Against my will
I blend,
Illusions meet their end
Clinging to my images...

Outside my door lies the wreckage of progress made.
Inside this place I've lost my right to complain.