19 Jan 2016 – Rubaiyat
Some souls are stainless steel, it seems,
they stand there, bathed in oilfield streams,
they never weep – so never rust,
untroubled by this new worlds’ dreams.
Their roots: hydraulic drills that thrust
deep underneath the sun-scorched crust
and drink the bowl of liquid greed
mixed by the mighty lords of dust.
Their branches – raised like wire reeds
from which fall blood-red, rusting beads.
The voices of the children weep
as hot winds spread their poisoned seeds.
Sow chaos and the same you’ll reap.
Sow violence and the wrath will keep
you warm like bright volcano’s seams –
they say the rent in hell is cheap.