Marco Di Caprio

The pendulum swings on with fatal sound;
dark flocks of crows cross paths above the ground.
Lamenting sobs rise over fields of stone,
where cemeteries breathe in steel and dust.

Metallic pillars rise from waste and sludge;
the waters, dark from far, seem deep and blue,
yet close at hand reveal their poisoned truth,
the black of oil, the red of dissolved stain.

The sand itself lies rotting into mold,
and hell has swallowed Nature, whole and still.
All beauty is a dream too brief to hold;
my voice is bound and powerless to act.
Too small am I to save the dying world,
too small to save the self I carry still.

And yet my song is shifting as I stand;
My darker notes know more than I can see,
that light persists, however dim it burns.
And though it fades, I search for it still on
through crowds that pass in cold indifference,
a distant light that trembles, thin, yet true.
And on this path composed of shadowed forms
I start to feel I may not reach that light,
for it must reside somewhere within myself.