Today

The freshly mown grass smells burnt,
Of machines and of intention made social in human.
The mother look ever more constrained, not strict
Their children ever more lost so, their mothers,
The falcons cover their width amongst their wings,
Twirl without a swirl, hungry skies;
The young hawk on the intentions of the providing,
The dire heart consequences of surviving.
The Women made so plastic, Men
Hover longer, maybe, provide for four wheels that make a ride;
The written verses of love fall shorter
Without a reach into the known life that lover proclaim.
The Fragrance comes swiftly against the
Demised sweet smelling sour sweat of mine.
Today, I feel short of needs
Like living of on a pond of decadence,
Wallow, The Doors ask me to smoke,
Their pieces of plagiary in dices and peace.

Today, may seem less named under the yesterday,
But it's goodness remains, just like everyday.