A Journal for Western Man
G. Stolyarov II
I stumble through them without knowing
What sorts of parasites are growing
Atop the unexploited plain,
What creatures call it their domain
And harvest from the weeds are sowing
While suffocating in the labyrinth of pain.
Haphazard growth, them light not reaching,
The streaks of heat their fabric bleaching,
Their withered forms a corpse�s kin,
Swaying, they seem a sadist�s grin.
Through them is Gaia�s voice beseeching,
�Accept this state where none can win!�
Winged midgets through the green are flying,
But hatching, munching, breeding, dying;
Amorphous thugs in shape and mind,
Their habits not by will defined,
Tribal automatism not one of them defying,
Tomorrow to perpetual oblivion confined.
With pitfalls present, muck containing,
From their correction men abstaining,
This is a stretch which none may own.
�Tis an environmental zone.
My funds and yours are this maintaining,
Unchanged since prior to the age of stone.
I�m not allowed here; thus, I�m leaving.
But for this land�s fate I am grieving.
The parasites have allies near my home:
From lab to rally does the Greenness roam,
Through fabricated scares the populace deceiving
Into the spread of this dilapidated foam.
Once past its realm, a different grass I�m treading,
A mower�s blade order and life embedding.
A factory hums nearby, a tower looms ahead.
They would be murdered, wasteland left instead,
In the direction Green extortionists are heading,
Of man�s subservience to chaos dead.
