This poem takes an historical approach, describing how different periods of time have collected and then discarded different things. Thanks for coming by to read!
Each age has its own.
Open sewers running free.
Smoke-choked skies and shipwrecked seas.
Each age has its own.
Letters, piled up to the sky.
Newspapers, a million high.
Each age has its own.
Silent music, never played.
Lost to time, the movies fade.
Each age has its own.
Sludgy lakes and poisoned ponds.
Smoggy cities. Species, gone.
Each age has its own.
Photos, precious: digitized.
Bits and bytes, metastasized.
Each age has its own.
Brittle bottles on the beach.
Changing course seems out of reach.
Each age has its own.
Corpses, corpses, piling high.
Bill of Rights hung out to dry.
Each age has its own.
Copyright 2021 Andrea LeDew
For a poem recounting political mayhem, with zealots trying to tear the house down, read Great Patriots 1/3/21.
For a poem about appreciating nature, see Take Steps.
Hopefully, this age we’re in will pass away, never to be seen again.
“Never been seen before”–the hyperbole of the last four years–would fittingly be followed by “never to be seen again. “
That’s for sure!