Who is there to mourn?
Land of opportunity has become a dustbowl.
The spirit has dried up.
The people are all screwed.
The mourners have all gone to their homes.
The symphony has ceased.
Old folk die.
A bang, a wimper, a silent holocaust of mind and
soul and spirit.
And we are left to wonder.
The bright light has failed.
The jet engine ceased
A lifeless image
Of a once great nation
Wreaked by storm and quake, flood and fire.
There is no rhyme; there is no reason,
None request a burial,
They have not forsaken the dead.
Nor have they found the living.