My tummy hurts again,
From what I didn’t know,
Would hurt intestines weak from fear,
Of another vandalizing idiot.
Pure and fresh,
Rot to make flesh,
That will last the grinding days,
Long enough to sing,
As complete as You would wish,
And binding together to be more whole,
Than I have ever been.
I don’t like to be told,
That all this was airy lies, and empty bowls,
The plates piled high with man-made leeches,
Killing me and you, one by one, then all at once,
In avalanche catastrophe,
Does the truth come at long last?
After decades of mindless tastes,
And steps towards this disaster,
Do we now come to the truth?
Oh, God, help me to know,
And be well.