Long before the mountains fell
by Alexander Beebe
there lived the frequency.
What seemed unreal to thirsty minds
became the norm and diatribe.
The rhetoric was in the air
but most ignored the signs.
The rising stock filled the chests
of warring tribes and dialect.
In time the pulse replaced the punch
of warhead sticks Big Brother launched.
Precision lightening stored in sheds
now insufficient to calm unrest.
Turn off the brain that fuels the sky
no trains or planes or cars can hide.
No way to feed the Big Machine.
No way to keep its engine clean.
What seemed benign when first they spoke
of bloodless strikes from the magnetic pulse.
It slayed the dragons from all the tribes.
it put to feet those left to hide.
The lesson learned was much to late
the sword that swung it cut both ways.
Like poison that the cancer hates
sometimes the cure becomes your fate.
Occasionally while on a hunt across
New Mountains Gorge
you'll find a trace beneath the growth
of times our village elders warned.
A copper hand with torch held up now
marks the passage through,
to valleys where the bison roam
that clothe our backs and feed our homes.
A time that seems unreal to me of
things that fueled the human dream.
I'm told our life is better now
with dragons buried in the ground.