(for Aunty Myrtle)
Unearth from your mineshafts the eon of death,
the shelf time for fossils is cut to an hour.
While breaking those tablets, a breath mimics snath
for calluses grow, chiseled layers devour.
When helmets spill scarcely belt battery juice,
the mouth of unknowing shows thirst for a price.
What chinks in your pockets? Dreams… trifles with news…
Come back in return for outfoxing demise.
Fortnights fade to nothing and soot breeds on Sun.
A wide berth for errors, the thinnest of walls
costs toilers a fortune, gives warnings to none.
Does life really worth it, the mounding of spalls?
Breathe slowly with trolleys, grown ridges for sale,
burn greedily later in rich anthracite.
The miners are mending old pathways to hell,
some buying the farm and the others... respite…
July 7, 2011
Unearth from your mineshafts
© Copyright: Юрий Лазирко, 2011
Свидетельство о публикации №111070900492
Свидетельство о публикации №111070900492
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