It (#Wattys2016)

sunday sorrows

depressing sunday indeed
when even the sunflowers bleed
and the daisies dance madly in violence

the trees sit up and mourn
the roses wriggle their thorns
and the wildlife is screaming in silence.

little ghost stands in middle
her hands playing the fiddle
as the dance of the dead starts again.

the moon sheds light to admire
and the meadow's on fire
while the crazed song of danger brings pain.

cigarettes brighter than day
alcoholic drinks thrown away
the reason why destruction seeks death.

for man claimed things their own
felt secure on their throne
while outside, nature loses its breath.

"so come die," the ghost sings,
"you've overthrown the true kings."
and the night grows fiercer and tense.

the music rides up a crescendo
then misses its tempo
as the meadow begins losing its sense.

when all life turns to ashes
the ghost blinks neatly her lashes
her sigh heavier than sins of abuser.

the song had ended abrupt
the night had ended corrupt
and the humans had killed off their future.

and as the ghost disappears
in her eyes, there are tears
as she feels something deep in her fade.

mother nature she was once
until she fell to a true dunce
and henceforth she knew mankind had strayed.