The Cry

A lonely ape sat on the highest rock,
beneath the circling stars and wondered why,
but then forgot what it was that moved him
to emit the dreadful cry that echoed
down the chasms beneath the darkening sky.

At rivers end there is no rhythmic sea,
just a muddy hole bounded by salt marsh
where thirsty beasts huddle in steaming mire
and baleful raptors circle patiently,
waiting for one to stumble and expire.

The city's glittering organ pipes rise up,
self reflecting in narcissistic prayer,
they sing silently of wealth and power,
swaying a foot or two in mourning air,
to Mammon's strains of infinite despair.

Red, green and amber, the congregation's
conga snakes below, exhaling foul airs.
Within, the informatics screens glow blue,
counting up the souls of commodities,
in mockery of ozone's failing hue.

High in the boardroom the ape screams again,
feeling the vertigo of falling stocks
as pain, but conquers fear with bonus plans.
Beyond, the desert and the mountains wear
that calm expression that was always there.