Planet Earth's Foreign Creator

How nature is foreign in our modern society.

From off a path and down a hill
Stands a house unearthly still
Where the poor boy watches his master lay
Hands and head pressed against the entryway

The poor boy knew as instinct should
That death had again stricken him from good
Instead leaving behind a rotting shell
A scene whose image is likely to dwell

 

And yet there was beauty in the reaper’s place
For death was natural, not a race
There his master laid, straight in his bed
With curtains of peach swaying overhead
The sunrise had displayed crisp golden light
Which eliminated all essence of eerie night

 

The room glowed around the sheeted silhouette of a man
One which did not possess the breath to understand
To reality it was a masterpiece, but on the other hand
Man’s alienated mind ceases to see how grand

 

To such material creatures nature is foreign
Such as a duckling waddling into a warren
We only pay attention when reality calls
Never to expanding treetops and frozen waterfalls.

 

And so the poor boy will wipe his eyes
Then lurk back into the world that has modernized
Where bank clerks are saints, checks tickets to heaven

                   The door will close, the entryway will seal
               A final goodbye will replace all that needs to heal
                         Once again the machine will reset
                     At least until reality is forced to beset.

Author's Note

I got to thinking and this was a result.