My Issue With Eliot

Triumph distilled
Her nurture and
As little more than a trophy what
Was there to live for?

I came across the mocking jay, calming
Towards the heavens skies, delinquent
Winter sat on top the branch, calling
With sorrows voice, frequent
Passages of time tell stories of miracles
And waste lands,
She saw straight through each of their lies
Like Mother Nature had despise
Built in to conviction,
Consciousness explained?
And with each syllable Eliot
Replaced words with ego,
Paved nature with
His purposefully poured cement,

How was there more than self-importance
To each sense? Assurances
Brought me all the way
Here, abandoned to that fatigue, cancerous
With death, to what fate?

I came across the mocking jay, twisting
From the starlit nights, crying
“You’re one of us,” romance
Distilled triumph, nurtured
As more than trophies guise, what
Was there not to live for?

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Poem © Phen Weston 2014

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