Richard George Treanor
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The Cycle (Circa 2050 Ad) (Reductio Ad Absurdum, Caricature, If You Will)
In an era of meaningless words,
In a day of numberless hours,
With legends of musical birds,
And states of limited powers,
With tales of sight unrestricted,
Of trees with breath that was fed
From breath of man inflicted,
Of lands where rivers weren't dead.
By streams too turgid for flowing,
In air too noxious for breath,
Bitter weeds of sorrow are growing,
And the view of tomorrow is death.
The fin and the shell have vanished
From the brine, and wings in the sky
From the sphere of the air are banished
'Till vast eons ...