A Weary World


the world bears a weariness on its shoulders
where all this poison mars it,
and its broken back bears all this polluted sorrow
on those meaningful mountains time piled there

for skies to rest their cloud-breasted tomorrows on,
like mankind’s faithless arm tonight, hand pouring death
in copious oceans bruising the clouds
that weep their loud mourning,

each dawn that mirrors our speculative
reflection, as desolate days awake
they drown again in this reasoned sea –
bleeding memory, dreaming death free.

David McLean