Smoke
28 March, 2012
Author: Mark Spencer
The mighty Grizzly hibernates,
Winter is nearly spent.
But on the wind, death has arrived,
A most unpleasant scent.
The humans flee, in their machines,
This messenger of doom.
But they have waited far too long,
That place will be their tomb.
The odor smells like rotting eggs,
Its pungence makes them choke.
Regardless of their swift retreat,
They can’t outrun the smoke.
And then a rumble shakes the earth,
As hell bursts from its bowels.
A roar like thunder drowns the sound
Of terror’s frantic howls.
She spits her ash into the sky,
And makes her presences known.
Mankind is at the mercy of
The wrath of Yellowstone.
The brashness that once filled his heart
Is gone within a day.
The pride of his accomplishments
Are all but swept away.
The ash spreads out across the sky,
Engulfing like a cloak.
For many weeks, deep in the earth,
It vomits up like smoke.
Yet I have jumped too far ahead,
And skipped what comes before.
The chapters leading up to this
Will tell you so much more.
But that would give it all away,
And then you might not look.
If you think you know the story,
Would you still read the book?
So I will leave you to your thoughts,
Until Old Faithful shakes.
And that great hibernating bear,
Named Mother Nature, wakes.
‘Til then the birds will sing their songs,
And wolves will stalk the night.
The smoke lay waiting ‘neath their feet,
Until the time is right.
The mighty Grizzly hibernates,
Winter is nearly spent.
But on the wind, death has arrived,
A most unpleasant scent.
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Comments on this poem/writing:
Megan (24.144.49.121) -- Sunday, April 1 2012, 08:59 am That was an eerie bit of prophecy Mark. |
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