The world created for us is sick.
It’s decaying.
Wounds, with no scab forming
And we’re expected, without questioning
To live on in such a world
To allow such a world to exist
But it’s infuriating
And it torments the hearts of men
Tearing mother from child
Raising us on malevolence
Scurrying through the fields
Until the hunters carry us away
And every last vestige of shelter
Is plucked from the ground
Incinerated, burned in factories
To make cardboard boxes
That will be filled with promises
Of low cholesterol
For the masses
That gleam over the details
Unaware that hope is lost
And that our species is dying
Hurriedly moving from one space
To another
Without realizing their fright
Without looking at the box
That they helped produce
By failing to protect
Their shelter
A world, ending