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Tags poetry, wanderlust
They yearn for the repose of the country.
For limpid streams and cloudless skies,
For winding lanes and rolling hills
When what they seek
is what they know thus far.
A simple urban visit will evince
the stygian clad magpies,
enticed by glassy goods.
Two skylines, one polished and unsullied.
The other, insiduously encroaching on
the dual carriageways,
created by a grassy median.
Year after year they swathe, and
drape themselves over ditches
with such patience, unperturbed by time, that
no one pays heed.
So too do the city structures and
suburbs sprawl ceaselessly.
Not so dissimilar, town and country.
And I, caught in a grassy median,
can reveal
It's not as tranquil as first perceived.
Don't mind this it's for myself..
For limpid streams and cloudless skies,
For winding lanes and rolling hills
When what they seek
is what they know thus far.
A simple urban visit will evince
the stygian clad magpies,
enticed by glassy goods.
Two skylines, one polished and unsullied.
The other, insiduously encroaching on
the dual carriageways,
created by a grassy median.
Year after year they swathe, and
drape themselves over ditches
with such patience, unperturbed by time, that
no one pays heed.
So too do the city structures and
suburbs sprawl ceaselessly.
Not so dissimilar, town and country.
And I, caught in a grassy median,
can reveal
It's not as tranquil as first perceived.
Don't mind this it's for myself..
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