Routine...

it is the same over and over again,
no change, nothing unfamiliar,
the terrains we master,
the confrontations too boring,
all words, no images, nothing about
metaphors, trains and rails, sky and grass,
winds coming, and eddies leaving,
air filled with dust, leaves blown away,
women with straw hats,
hands of children, whistles of husbands,
what more can this world give us?

perhaps, a global erasure.
when we all perish, when no one blames
anybody anymore
when cockroaches begin their rule.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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