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Yellowed Teeth

Black smoke permeates and chokes.

Factory fumes coat the sky in blankets of purposeful innovation—
‘Real progress is lasting progress,’ says the man on his deathbed,
Pinching a cigarette between his yellowed teeth.

His life—his factory—crouches on a bleak soil
Brushed bare of grass, shrubs, trees, and all else green or auburn.
But concrete is subject to collapse
And dynamite.

When the dynamite comes—
Or, if wind and rain are left the burden, when they come—
The concrete and yellowed teeth will be taken
Under water, roots, and new springs of nature’s retribution.

For groves and glades usher a new kind of existence:
One that fears neither self-affliction nor permanent suffocation.
New springs provide smokeless skies and quiet streams.

Fresh air fills the lungs with life.





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