There is, at least in my mind,
Some sort of expectation for the children of the forsaken world.
That someday, we should be the ones to bring it back.
We, us, the ones who never lifted a single finger
In this forlorn world’s demise.
It is us that the former generations calls upon
When their energy has been spent
Destroying the thing that they ask us to fix.
And I ask you, what makes this fair or right?
That the innocent shall wait on the guilty?
That the ones not born yet should pick up after the ones long dead?
That the elder asks the younger, does that make it right?
Where is the justice?
And I ask you, with tears streaming down my face,
Why should I help those who would hurt me?
Why should I cry for the ones who shed no tears?
And when the young are done toiling to repair the despairing world,
They will have grown old.
Their childhood stolen from them, just as their masters’ never were.
And this is the cycle of the world,
That the weak shall prey on the strong until there are no strong left for the weak to devour
And then the weak will be gone too.