The Coming of Man
by John Grey
The surface cries out at my first footstep.
Air whines with every one of my breaths.
Vegetation cowers as if I am death
about to jerk out my next victim by the roots.
I can hear metals and gases squealing
like cornered rats,
the tremble of creatures in fluttering underbrush.
Before I can even utter the word "Peace",
distant mountains shudder, trees quiver,
even the horizon vibrates ominously
like a plucked bass string.
I try to shine a little of my light
on this wasteland
but that sends the brightness
into spasms of glare and shadow,
frenzied blindness, chaotic glow.
I don't bother with this "I am mankind" stuff.
They'll learn that soon enough.
Instead, I stake out an ideal spot for my dwelling.
Beneath a beautiful groveling sky,
beside a deep blue cringing lakeÉideal.
© 2013 John Grey
John Grey is an Australian born poet, works as financial systems analyst. Recently published in Bryant Poetry Review, Tribeca Poetry Review, and the horror anthology "What Fears Become", with work upcoming in Potomac Review, Hurricane Review and Osiris.
Find more by John Grey in the Author Index.
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