I'm praying for a day when I can breathe in the black and white solace of a scratchy, blurry landscape devoid of streetlights.
My eyes, filled with pollen, are closing on the shadow of an arm casted out further than my reach, towards a hawk's silhouette amongst the limbs of a dying birch.
what is a human but a cosmic spec of semi-wanderlust destroying the planet because they believe they rule it while if the human race ceased to exist the world would flourish
The factory is a human mutilation of our soul Mindless repetition putting out one part of a product No skills fully learned or refined just another machine Nothing to learn and grow for, nothing to strive for Just day in and day out until death, illness, or retirement Claims your fleshy sacs of aging water skins
Life reduced to a ticking clock, As shriveled men desperately clasp To slick tomes filled with diagrams Of shadowy glass towers, convoluted machines And factories with a singular purpose: To manufacture their own existence.
The Plague spreads to druidic forests Where those who simply existed Overcome with glutinous ambition Demolish those majestic columns Which supported equilibrium While the world gleefully cheers.