All these broken snakes lie dreaming in their graves,
Of legs and arms and fingers, theirs to call their own.
They would make beautiful things, build up to the sky,
Such intricate limbs would they be to help save the world.
Lowly and quietly they trail the ground and cry,
Isolated and somber, just trying to get by.
Burned and buried in the ground, crying of frustration.
Kicked down by the fearful eyes, slaughtered with a scream,
Murdered by legs and arms and fingers,
The broken snakes lie dreaming of a different world.