Wild Roses by Jim Wilson


as the darkness slithers over the land
and the nothing swirls across like evening fog
uninterrupted save by soapbox shamans
climbing up higher to try and catch and mend
a million broken arrows and send them straight
back into the bone of the beast
for even only lunatics know the price
of commodification of souls
once many grumbled
and then had their heads turned
by silver seducers having lost
the something that inhabits even gnats
in a process both old and refined the gatherings
of the avaricious mercury rolling into itself
an indistinguishable glob shiny and dense the greed
gradually ruled politeness because it wanted things
that once made brave folk quake
became entertainment scenes of others misfortune
induced laughter from the audience
forgetting how to smell a rose
wingless birds sing more incessantly
than new residents of nomansland
without wings, feet move in ancient dances
designed to make the spines of stars shiver with delight
and life that is hope stomp back the nothing
it will take time
to plant…wild roses