Treasure Island

Gabriell Riley


Industrialisation


What horrors lie behind these eyes
That stare into the darkness of the soul
They have felt the bitter cold
Of winds that rape the mind
And smelt the rotting coal
Of furnaces that pollute
Our very imagination
Of power stations that rock the psyche
And desert like formations
Where comical balls of sticks
And twigs are pushed by gusts
Of urges to refrain from being like the rest of us

Submitted: Monday, April 08, 2013
Edited: Wednesday, October 09, 2013

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