Poetry: Ash Wens
Written by Nic Custer Wednesday, 28 April 2010 16:13
Ashes to ashes,
pus to dust.
My city is burning,
my city is rust.
The trees that built
houses were
clear cut from Flint,
now our
urban forest is
sprouting flames
not
cultivating rents.
Devil's night everyday,
three trucks can't make a dent
The city's in flames but
my motivation is heaven sent.
The ghosts of our past
stuffed their coffins
with billowing bribes
of gas-splashed cash.
Their greed chars last.
Cremations happen
fast so find a nice urn
to stash your
histories in.
Will our kids remember
this as urban renewal
or a smoldering sin?
Apathies are
industry's children.
Community is the support
that keeps us living.
The heart of my city is driven
but these scars are 3rd degree.
So I agree beauty can
bloom out of tragedy. And
fill dirt only masks heritage and shame.
"The Devil's Month" will now
be April's name.
200 fires.
Lead paint fuels funeral pyres.
39 fighters fired.
Flint, my patience is growing so tired.
| < Prev | Next > |
|---|
Content : 3442
Content View Hits : 709520
