Spirited through time, riven
we make our meek adjustments,
deferring to the feeding frenzy
when communal touch and slow dinners
are what we really crave.
Clacking skeletons of capitalist spectacle
drown out our warm mammalian needs,
dance on our graves
blot out the sun.
Image by Michele Montserrat
3 thoughts on “July Third, Two Thousand Eighteen”
Thank you Patricia. We need to get out from under this system, hoping for more slow dinners as we walk forward together.
Absolutely adore your choice in vocabulary!