The Machine From Hell

And a wish for its demise

Photo by Chris Bair on Unsplash

Autumn leaves are fluttering
From the broad and stately oak.
Our warm and cozy hearths, now lit,
Send up their plumes of smoke,
To air perfumed with cedar scent
And winter smells of pine,
The crisp, cool day as beckoning
As finest, vintage wine.
Sunshine sends its warming rays
To banish winter chill,
A breeze sighs softly through the trees
Where dark-eyed Juncos trill.

Photo by John Duncan on Unsplash

Then peace is harshly shattered
By the awful, strident roar,
Assaulting every eardrum
Like the death throes of a boar.
The noise is more alarming
Than the screech of garbage trucks.
It’s worse than toddlers screaming
Or a chainsaw run amok.
Dispelling peace and solitude
With every decibel,
It must have been invented
In the very bowels of hell.