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Writer's pictureDarkling Thrushes

The Broken World

I don’t watch the news, but I obey 

Traffic signals without making much fuss. 

The Antarctic is breaking into pieces, 

Flow away, flow away and be done. 

 

Gangs of roving thugs are standing in line, 

For a job sweeping the bank, and a frown 

Of towers stand vigilantly over us, they 

Watch in silence as the snow doesn’t fall. 

 

The poor will wander through the world, asking 

For nothing.  They try too comfortably 

Sit on hostile park benches; a soup-kitchen 

Riot breaks out at the beach, our fate. 

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