Rusted tanks all full of holes
Rain it falls, but doesn’t hold
Climb each rib to get inside
Lug the concrete, sweat the time..
Not too Early
Ten miles from here
Two worlds escape
Heated air in moments
Lift high above limits
In the small hours
To a sky’s deep blue..
Cracked, uncracked, shell to this land
old the ancients stand, afoot before their theft
to places foreign, grafted by strangers
for profits in which to line ones pockets
No longer free to straddle wild
Now far across the sea..
Last night while sitting on the front steps beneath a dull light, I decided to up-cycle a postal pack from the US with a few words, the three poems above in fact. Of course, everyone already noticeed the scratchy writing on the first image, but below is what I got to listen to from the postal pack, True North, by Chenoah Lee.