Feral

Land without shadows, turned always to the sun;
the light falls on full fields, rich grass , lively shores,
but we find it insufficient, uninteresting, expandable.
The isle is granted a new name, after the coney
that thrive upon the verdant ground, rich and lively,
free in brush and briars to find the way to survive.
But while the light continues to fall along the shore
the grass has turned from wealth to desolation,
from fields to vast strips of wood and steel.
The wild coney is gone, no place left for it;
instead we find cyclones and thunderbolts shaking,
rattling earth and sky and never satisfied.
Have we tamed the wild, made it our tool,
or have we slain it, laid waste to all the coneys
and proclaimed the world for fat, grease, and cotton candy?
Land without shadows, turned always to the sun,
land without land, turned always to the fun;
and the coney suffers, fades, and is thrown away.

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