Tacoma

A Poem by Owen

Cascades of grey fall around these dead-green hills frosted with pale snow,

No shifts of color, only a mute blanket where sound and smell are suffocated,

The rusted-claw of this landscape disembowels all senses other than the innate fear from infancy, yet the beauty persists, in the rain-tattered, windswept and abandoned homesteads, in the deafening silent-giants that loom forbiddingly, in the expanses of dead-green that blot out human-error, in the preternatural gloom that swallows all light,

the observer knows no humanity in this stagnant terrain, only the glass veil of an un-encompassing eye - Eastern Oregon 4/7/2016