The Window of 2012

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic
2012 was the wettest year on record in England.Though the human inhabitants were oblivious to this.

Submitted: January 14, 2013

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Submitted: January 14, 2013




The rose has framed the summer


the leaves have done their duty.


The flowers have shed their seeds


and the hedge rows offer their final feast.




This community of life will forget the rain


that killed their babes.


Nature’s rage is done


the darkness of winter approaches


and sleep is what some will fear.




The bee has done his work


and death will come tonight.


Though his legacy will protect the queen.




The swallows are over the ocean


destined to follow the sun,


they are a year older


 and the wet summer has taken its toll


the ocean will be grave to some.




 The old man who now wears his scarf


reflects on another summer gone,


memories of youth grow distant


and his love for her lingers on.




In the city the face of humanity is blind


for they have forgotten natures laws.


Their life of work and mortgage pressure


will bleed the soul on corporate mill.




The mandatory tie is a noose


the alarm clock the wake of despair


and the rain will greet the morning rush,


dripping its sorrow on bowler hats


that feed on the drones they cover.




The autumn years will find them mute


for release from work will kill.


 Life outside will be a stranger


the ant has lost his way


and up above the clock ticks on


into uncertainty and fear.






The blanket of winter has come for payment


the cold will take the weak,


But nature will hide her treasure


for hope is buried from icy grasp




The spring will heal the losses


and the rose will rise again,


her beauty will frame tomorrow.




And those who wish to look


those who admire her beauty


will flourish in her fragrance.


Their essence will join this chorus of life


the cries of the new born will fill the earth


for the circle of life is complete.




And these corrupted cities


will look away for the markets are open


feeding a mirage of wealth.


Like the magpie for shiny things


always wanting more.




 Death will come in comfort things


like cigarettes and alcohol.


though pockets of gold will not follow


for heaven was lost in yesterdays gamble.




And the ants will rush for one more day


for all will be forgotten in time.


Except for the Rose


her nature cannot be bought


and she will be with us


To the end of time.








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