Mimicry

and this mimicry of a life
is shouldered by the illusion
that everything's alright
and these days just hurry by

while the dreamrobin lay weeping
at his final lamentation
of his children flown on by
gone to find brighter skies

and the inchworm inches slowly
down the pavement bled dry
from the torrents gone so long ago
towards the south where lovers lie

savoured only by the dancers
who've hugged their sides years before
lost in their admiration
for the utopia landed in the moors

so long gone the ideas,
so long gone the lore
of a planet riddled with satisfaction,
of this world washed upon the shore

kingdoms and wonderlands fallen;
betrothed to only heels
in their ridiculous wastings
of their calendars and hastings

while the sun outside shone brightly
despite the moon horizontal
awaiting the soaking subtlety
of its children's relaxing under trees

and its grasshopper's broken legs
eaten by the axe and hoe,
idling with this life created
with no expectations, lo'

the fields carved manmade,
the seeds burrowing into gold
the nililists scared of nothing,
their faces scarred two-fold

with the dreamrobin's toes
pointing to the stars
his children's children's children
still bewildered as to who they are

deep under the soil
and the humus and the grime,
stands the lost civilizations and dinosaurs
buried by the white man and his bolted double doors

the age of a new dawning
yes, this mimicry of life
I see it on the horizon,
the fluorescent bulbs shining bright

the falsified air
that we breathe just to buy
a fresh pair of shoes
with which to follow the days hurry by.