Poetry

This was man made, 
the blue-chip― 
changing the landscape. 
Fanatically you cling to mother 
terra firma like a baby primate. 
 
Incontrovertibly― 
I am going back to look 
like my fathers, 
with twisted contours. 
Forward― facing, but looking behind. 
 
I climb up the blue, 
to unsolve the murder and go 
into deep meditation to reject 
the gods. The gold mine was flooded 
by unprecdented rains of hands and footsteps.