The Last Hippie

This little poem goes against most of my writing habits, as it is an environmental cry-out: and while I feel strongly on the subject; Poetry should not have to have a message or reason! -doing so quite nearly undermines the purpose of poetry in fact- and it saddens me greatly that this one should need to be.
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The Last Hippie.

He sits, entwined
In the branches of the last tree
Of metropolis.

This is his place
To breathe, a memory of the tranquil,
Shrouded in chaos,

Like a faded
Photograph, alien to the gaudy lights
Of the city.

An apology, he clings
To the ancient boughs, bark rough under
Tired hands.

Branches spread skyward,
As tactile fingers, and all he can taste is
The sorrow.

They two,
Last of a kind, there was never room
For failure.

With a pistol cocked
To his mouth, forgiveness is begged,
Tomorrow, the diggers come.

There will be no last stand.
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© Leah Petts 13.09.2009