Metanoia
Persephone wears a crown of thorns
And a dress made of poppies as
She marches the street, carrying a sign
That reads “there is no planet B”
Her husband keeps a tally for her
Of all the children that have died
Because their water turned to poison and
Their air to vapor ash
She shouts their numbers in the streets
For no one to hear; so few believe
Anymore, in an age of death and steel
Her flowers all but fading--
Trampled underfoot the way of progress
The way of profit ever higher
But like those you called weeds
She comes back, louder still
And not alone, for it has always been
The children are the closest to the earth
And a dress made of poppies as
She marches the street, carrying a sign
That reads “there is no planet B”
Her husband keeps a tally for her
Of all the children that have died
Because their water turned to poison and
Their air to vapor ash
She shouts their numbers in the streets
For no one to hear; so few believe
Anymore, in an age of death and steel
Her flowers all but fading--
Trampled underfoot the way of progress
The way of profit ever higher
But like those you called weeds
She comes back, louder still
And not alone, for it has always been
The children are the closest to the earth
Original Publication cancelled due to Covid