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,
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.