Poem: Raising the dead

  • Burn trees rejuvinating
By
Jon-Grant Ferguson
Issue
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Feeding on our ancestors

Feasting on the dead

We Burn

We fuel

We cremate

Drive machines with wood and lead

We innovate and motivate

And bring our dreams to flight

From dark diamonds and black gold

We turn them all to light

 

We are raising the dead

Their ashes fill our skies

The remnants of their burning, smog the sun and close our eyes

 

We are raising the dead

And raising hell on earth

They are liberated incarnate

A fiery second birth

 

Our hopes and dreams

Our plans and schemes

depend upon their ascension

But our lives are lost as we count the cost

For paying little attention

To the cry and pain of such primitive gain and our hearts are filled with dread.

As our lives return to the dust, we burn

And the earth becomes our bed.

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