Wasted spoiled children

Of a decadent and dying empire.

Planned Obsolescence

I am a small thing
in a big world
in an even bigger universe.

My flesh is not as durable
as stone, not even my teeth
or bones. My mind

is an infinite thing housed
in a finite container with
an expiration date T.B.D.

I am composed primarily
of water, though, I do not
evaporate on a hot day.

My hands are strong
but they are made of many
fragile bones and tendons-

the same thing can be said
of my feet. My skin covers
me whole, though, it is easy

to pierce or cut. My eyes
reveal a palette of sights
that delight and disgust me,

show me proof of my
insignificance. My ears
inundate me with a constantly

shifting score composed
for every known and unknown
instrument and creature.

My tongue serves as an advance
scout for my stomach
before in put is broken into

components of use and waste.
My hardware has peaked
and will only age as newer

models are released every day.
In time, if I am lucky, I will
become obsolete and tended

to by younger models of our
kind. This does not sadden me.
Nature did not intend this.

We are not built to last.
How horrible a thing
it would be if we were.

Impending Collapse

Empire decays

like the grin 

of a rotting corpse.


Skin and muscle

reveal hardened 

white. Urban 


prairies, a frontier

reclaiming the 

fields of progress.

Colours of Motley

She felt joy in the arms of the tree.

It's branches a perfect place for shade,

a comfort no talking mouth could offer.

Dressed in bright motley, her smile grew

to cover that which the motley could not.

Employed by no King or Court, instead,

whim was indulged. The branches of her 

tree was the only home she knew. So it went

time after time, alternating between comfort

and joy. What of the pests feeding from 

the fruit of the tree? Holding its fruit in her

hand she found it ripe with decay. Barely 

visible feet crawling within and without.

She reached for another, and another,

and another, only to find the same face

of decay. The colours of her cheeks

became streams converging at her chin.

Poor tree, poor me  she thought.

Poor, tree, poor me. 

She pulled buckets upon buckets

of water from the well and poured them

over the fruit, the branches and leaves

hoping to stop the approaching pestilence.

Her arms burned with pain, the muscles

unaccustomed to this strain. She collapsed

and fell into a damp sleep at the base 

of the tree. The water began to overwhelm 

the roots as the dirt flooded. Slowly,

they began to decay out of sight.

When she awoke, the leaves and fruit

surrounded her, the trunk dying.