Dystopic–sonnet, future, chiasmus


The warped boards of our tiny shanties
Are soaked, smelly and rotting in cold rain
I asked my poor sick Mother to grant me
A little more cooked, though infested grain

The skeleton of the once City, alive
Sits desolate and cold in the distance
Where wealthy lovely people were once thrived
Only maniacs go there to sit in

They sift through the ruins searching for peace
The ruins sift them–an unending toil
When will the misery and crying cease
A little treasure found eases their turmoil

The War was over One Hundred Years Ago
Tomorrow we will see snow in Tampa
The cold will seep in as rain turns to snow

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