by Sylvia Stout

the scenery changes, but the view remains-

tangled tree limbs stake their claim

and dig their roots deep; sunken in the pit of the beast,


they creep…seep…


an epidemic inception, they reap

the harvest of the toxins, we keep

ingesting the garbage, we keep investing

in tomorrows bubonic infection,

no regard for this chronic rejection

of the healing tonic- possession

of the truest logic- Progression.


stark naked, a lesson

in her bare-est form, in her rarest form- a sonnet;

with the metronome of a marching band, she’s on it.