All here is natural,
even the burned-out hulks of cars
are not out of place with paint peeling
in to the welcoming dirt.
They call it "getting back to nature,"
as though it's eccentric to "go bush"
and shed the mirrored facades
of skyscraper dreams.
A workshop can cure your ills there.
Out here lightning shears the sky without menace,
shimmering suns reflect nothing,
there are no truths written in the brackish tyre track water.
Unburdened, I can admire you with my heart,
which sings unendingly
that there is no whole truth
to a human life.
In the cities and towns,
paradise is bleeding from chapped lips
while in the twilight of the country
the heart of the land speaks the happiness
of a dingo chasing an evening meal.
Share on Facebook
Tweet about this Piece
Poor Mojo's Tip Jar: