To the Hills…

America, oh, America
Grace was so divine.
With neighborhoods
           So kind,
From hill to tarnished hill,
          Cuddling the hamlet,
As an ovum, from all sides.
Get the fire department and sons;
Or the football team and fathers;
          And propel them rearward.
Not real, the crushing continues,
Naturally named, the parish,
          Perishes 
To the force of its naturalness.
Embroidered trees diligently
          Stand guard.
                    On the right;
No more shopkeepers embracing
Their shops, flirting
With wannabe customers.
The shops gone, taken away
By the encroaching hills.
Embroidered trees diligently
          Stand guard.
                   On the left;
Escaping briefly to the silent city.
Only to watch silent cars,
Passing silent red lights
          Or green.
No matter by sunlight
          Or street.
Embroidered trees diligently
          Stand guard.
                    Through the muddle;
The embroidered trees converge,
Assiduously suffocating civility,
Shattering any semblance,
Of a castle in the sky.
Seceding to one decision:
To go forward…and back.

By Dave Semans

 

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