burying the art of our age
Sand dunes
in the Yucca Mountains
tell an ancient tale
of annihilation,
the moan of centuries
the only sound of inhabitance
in this stark Mesopotamia.
A chilled wind blows
history lessons through the
dust, past crumbling structures
and lost cultures,
the art
of our age underground.
Wandering survivors
roaming the empty desert:
take heed
of this sculptor’s dark dream
when you see it-
these guardians
who perch upon neon dirt,
with spikes and spirals
and the snarls of our people,
live to feed your fear
with visual tales
of an eon in mourning
-
Children, stop.
Stay away from here.
(we’ve left death in a time capsule for you)
In this, our Egyptian tomb
scattered with traps for
gravediggers,
there is no gold, only
our radioactive remains and
the disease we’ve left for you,
crafted
by our generation’s
best toxic artists
self-slaughtered for fame
on every hard-ly l-
earned textbook page
and for silence
brewing beneath their graves.
“Ozymandius”
the hillsides lie,
this art will not last
but explode like Atlantis.
Were they proud of their creation?
they'll wonder, and
Will they know if we felt shame?
Zoe Nyght
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/burying-the-art-of-our-age/
