Dystopia

the calendar year is no more than a memory
we bear no more than what we can carry around on our backs
we are hungry for meat
and we follow our feet…

the forests are razed, the oceans are empty
the air is so still apart from the listless wind at our backs
we eat and we sleep
and we follow our feet

our path is all set about with
debris from more prosperous times          
but we’re not romantics
we burn whatever we find

we follow the moon for she is our mother
we hide from the sun for fear he will burn our skins to black
we are tired and weak
and we follow our feet

our path is all set about with
cages with cavernous eyes
but we’re not romantics
we burn everything that we find

© 2016 by Zoë Robertson. Photography by Robert Zbikowski and Vincent Fugere. Proudly created with Wix.com

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