Barren Land

Barren Land

Gary Beck

O makers of cities
in your threadbare revelation,
coursing crumbling streets
that cry hunger like wares,
your passage is a bounteous corruption,
a dark voice dreading a tired lament.
You are a spectre of old burlesque,
a shirt-sleeved letch of clapping lust,
drooling the last song,
lost in a drifting dawn.
You are a morsel of entertainment
wasted by strangers,
a landless wanderer pleading arrivals,
eroding the book of enlightenment,
searching with wonder and anger
the land of visionless youth.