A Poem, Micah

Micah
I walked in a mountain
and it did not move
under my feet.

Dry olives gave no oil,
juiceless grapes were stamped needlessly,
harvesting grainless wheat.

An age of science
told me to be lonely
and I sang no more.

Yakking blabbermouths
passed cold wisdom
into sardonic ears,

and a coiled rattlesnake
warned of her venom,
as I marched aimlessly

and arrogantly
by the rock she
sunned herself on.

I desired keep
the sun, as
night hastened.