Chaos of machines
in park built for gentle peace.
blowing awful comedy
across seas of weakened trees.
American Culture, Chaos, Depression, Noise, Poems, Poetry, Tanka
This entry was posted on May 19, 2011, 5:15 am and is filed under Poems. You can follow any responses to this entry through RSS 2.0.
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#1 by screen_scribbla on May 19, 2011 - 5:48 am
I think I’d scream my head off. Well written in that I could feel my blood begin to boil in that space.
#2 by Carl on May 20, 2011 - 6:47 pm
Thank you for your comment. Blood boiling is right!
#3 by sixthsymph on May 19, 2011 - 5:52 am
I see and feel what you mean. Love the last line.
#4 by Carl on May 20, 2011 - 6:47 pm
Thank you for your comment. I appreciate it.
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