Member Poem

It sits like a plague on a rolled-out world;
Taste the ashes in the clouds,
On your tongue,
In your voice,
On the sugar-topped horizon
And the slowly tilting moon.
And the slowly dying sun.

It sits like a plague, a reminder, a choice;
The green leafed giants learn to move their frozen limbs,
Yet sit like old defenders in a battle aeons lost.
As a trail of steam and iron
Flows across their flesh like snow.

We sit like a plague, on a throne of ore,
Ridden from the earth is the beauty that she bore;
Atop the melting hillside, in a plume of toxic air,
Sits the remnants of our past,
And the peril they must share.