Barren Backyard

A Poem by Marshall

Each morning as the clock winds us up
we leave with little entrails of bruised feeling
blood and guts, words of cosmetic endearment
that leaves so little to hang on to.

Yet we follow what society has sculpted us into
machines with robot brains and numb feelings
that is a desert of emotionless sand dunes
the rippling and carving winds shifting grain by grain

from one non- event to another, just working.
When was the last time we explored a magical night
unaware of the chains of cumbersome domestic duties
and found ourselves alone in ecstasy?

If we count the years we grew from a flourishing
herb garden of delicate scents into a barren backyard
of weeds and thorn and thistle shrubbery we will
understand all that we should have done-but didn't.