Wasteland, a poem by Robert A. Sieczkiewicz

Wasteland

Wasteland

Herds of clouds travel by at sonic speed
Appearing to have meetings to attend
Never looking down at my drastic need
Lacking pity not a tear to expend

Once my fields produced many bumper crops
Filling the air with my sweet summer wheat
Now a flat arid brown mosaic corpse
Giving absolutely nothing to eat

Every living creature has moved away
Land lays barren totally depleted
As I had become greedy farmers’ prey
Alone now knowing that I was cheated

Will take generations my soil to heal
Then new farmers will come again to steal