by Nick Gisburne
The trees. So many. Cut, we burn them all,
To boil our sewage, liberating steam.
We send aloft a storm, a spiral, tall,
To blind the eye, the spy, the Golden Gleam.
A blemish in the heavens’, perfect peace,
Where every other starlight point is white,
The Gleam, unchecked, unhindered, will not cease,
Consuming every corner of the night.
The steam, our poisoned offering, is met
With squeals and shrieks, with anguish and alarm.
We smother it, to warn away the threat,
To save ourselves from wickedness, from harm.
And as the eye, the brass, the glass, retreats,
Our bottled city’s heroes fill the streets.
