My back on the ground, I wonder if they are jealous of us
With our limbs, we can move around
With statures fated into static, they can only watch
To stand still and tall – to exhale the air we breathe;
Helpless when cut down,
Screams silent when we take their homes, when we trample their kind –
Are they jealous of us,
that we can speak and walk and protect our own?
Yet is there really something to be jealous of
When voices are used to injure –
to implant thoughts in minds that can spur deadly actions;
When the ability to protect is used only for our own skin –
to turn a blind eye to things that don't affect us directly (and seek comfort in its blissful ignorance);
When havoc is wreaked with every step we take – and be so unaware of it?
Have we gone tired of killing those who are sessile – of those who don't fight back that we have turned to each other?
Are we living in a world where those who aren't human are more humanlike?
Is this what humanity is all reduced to now – so preoccupied with trying to **** one another that we fail to notice the larger picture –
that we don't have to **** him, her, or them,
because when we cut them down all those years ago,
we have already killed ourselves?
In the background, they are silent but laughing. Fools, they think as we swing our swords around like toothpicks — oblivious to the groans the ground is letting.
I think so too.
Original draft written last May 27, 2017