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In The Wasteland



Beget your children in the wasteland,
in the many places spoiled by those
other versions of yourself.
Henceforth shall you be
deprived of ecstasy, bereft of bliss.
What you had, what you never had,
you shall ever covet, always miss.
Damn those who made you to live
in the designated desert of contempt;
their names and faces long since gone,
you shake your fist at the passing sun
caught in your anonymous loop
until you collapse, shuddering, then grow still
among the filth and feces of fallen dreams.

All poems are written and copyrighted by Michael C. Rush.
None may be republished or repurposed without permission.