Poem by Isabelle Shutt
Hot breath on parchment
A sigh arises amidst the listless followers.
So many have we conquered,
So many have we outlived.
The sighing of the dead trees
A longing for the rustling of wind through leaves.
For the feel of earth, chaotic with life.
Manufactured perfection drifts without cause,
Wavering the few who stand
Alone and silent
Falling to the shattered terra cotta soil
Scattering, with sighs of relief,
The last of their dismantled humanity.
The Review 
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