Self inflicted injuryA Poem by BeccyOld men are asleep in chairs, dreaming of tragedy, mankind's small epitome and the moon blood red, like the Bible said; as Lemming like, we turn our eyes to the sky, though only for the finale, as the distraction of 9 to 5 becomes of no account and the concern of the priest rules paramount. And then, what of afterwards? Discuss, if you will class, the daily life of Amoeba Proteus, the supposedly simplest life form; yet masters of asexual mitosis. Completely resistant to radiation, nuclear oblivion no more than a passing irritation to them, (Einstein eat your heart out.) They would simply continue, with the higher hand perhaps changing a few things around, dismissing that aberrant warlike gene accidentally programmed into the first attempt; and perhaps a few hundred thousand years later, along lopes second time around, hopefully a little less hairy than before. Whatever the eventual outcome, I will still prefer apples to oranges, red wine to white, a leaf spiraling the industry of ants, fish darting; and my sweet little dog Holly will always love me, her faith greater than mine in the survival of our species. After all, who would open the tin if I were not around; if there was no sound, save, as Paul Simon put it, 'The sound of silence.'
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Added on July 19, 2019Last Updated on August 8, 2019 AuthorBeccyUnited KingdomAboutI'm forty four, single and have a lovely fifteen year old son called Charlie. I've been writing poetry and short stories since I can remember. I have always been an assiduous reader of poetry and real.. more..Writing
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