the remains of a utopia lay shattered at our feet,
some stare at it all longingly,
the others ignore that it could ever have been in reach,
so meanwhile the very ideals of our nations
morph and bend under the seeping, dripping pressure
of some unknown source,
centering the moments in our lives around dark red promises
bleeding with green that were whispered behind locked doors,
and we begin to rely on one another,
because its easier
and seems temporarily right.
we nod and pretend to be honest,
the relativity of every moral shrinking under the heat,
defying phsyics,
dooming us all.
and then they laugh and point,
the power aflame in their darkened irises,
and then the others watch in terror and
realize the shrapnel
they will leave behind when they exit this world
and sob for their children and their children and their poor poor children,
because all we are ever taught is that
pity leads to compassion and
wealth is the only solution
and some of the rest like to ignore this fucked up world
and turn to their cigarettes like infants playing with shadows in the light
and they wallow and brood on the hidden details,
the definiton of their mistakes,
and they cannot live in this and they hate it and themselves and anyone who dares to look their way,
situated on their avenues of brokenness and razor blades and cigarettes and
they miss it all,
the deterioration of the earth and its most powerful beings, the homo sapien species,
as we set ourselves on fire,
[fire the mistaken gift, how ironic]
and laugh and cry and watch the flames quickly consume.
and the rest,
the rest are left with the most despair
as they carefully attempt comprehend the misery that awaits,
painstakingly scrutinizing every moment that falls into their outstretched hands,
mothers that must care for the unwanted issues that all others have tossed aside out of weakness,
the orphans of ideals,
and they try their best ot nurture them to become as strong as they must be
and then the limelight falls onto the shadow infants, the ones that set themselves on rays of suicide.
and all the ways and natural tendencies are forgotten,
the purposese of lives lived tossed into the rapid flames of our earth,
unstoppable, unconquerable, slowed only in the slightest by the
small acts of love
that occasionally grace the
incomprehendable mess of the world.
--
a/n note sure why I wrote this... but I did. Almost halfway through this book. Thanks for reading! xx
