Yellow daises grow wild beside the road,
swaying in the wind of each passing car,
radios spewing the latest bit of chaos —
ebola has moved into the neighborhood
and the welcome wagon crashed,
the knife cuts in a sawing motion
as the media ignores the reason
for another severed head,
democracy dies in Hong Kong, buried
in an a grave marked only
by international apathy,
politicians change the dialogue daily,
hoping the new crisis will lessen
the sting of the last,
blame runs rampant,
solutions continue to hide —
as the news drowns out life.
I turn off the radio, roll down
the windows and wonder
has truly died.
Last night I dreamed of a young girl,
chanting “he loves me, he loves me not”
as she plucks the petals from
yellow daises growing wild beside the road.