Cuttlebone and Cobwebs

Junk Mail

8.30, junk mail falls to the floor

imposing itself on our hospitality

forcing its attention, uninvited, through a gap in the door

left for contact with the essential, the real,

not the trickery of consumerism and sales person zeal.

8.30, another distant forest falls

led to its slaughter trapped between twin walls

of greed and expectation

this life robbing the next of options.

8.30, junk mail falls to the floor

a cascade of verbiage designed to catch the eye

shuffled colours competing in the sober-carpeted corridor

of life's unappreciated reality,

myths, legends, phantom promises undermining normality.

8.30, the earth gasps another laboured breath

struggling with the reasoning which hastens her death

for a dearth of scrap paper

selling worthless wants disguised as need.