Let's cut down thousands of acres of trees and force the poor and wounded upon their knees. Don't forget to throw your trash out into earth and let new types of pollution be given birth. We'll continue to overuse all of our remaining soil and complain about our only earth is beginning to spoil. It doesn't really matter because we won't be here after all, because of us, the end is getting more near. Oh, and we'll never be the one to accept the blame for the oil spills and for anything that might become aflame.
i'm getting sick of how many people don't care about the state of our only Earth
One night I was a werewolf, but that got out of hand. One night you were a peach, but I preferred fresh over canned.
The blood scent was strong and on your collar, or was it spaghetti sauce? We meandered in the lost city of angels, but those women in the maternity ward were better shape-shifters.
Couldn't see if the moon was full against the polluted skyline, (but I bet it wasn't).
Then somewhere down the tracks, the howler (that's you), half a dream away on some deserted block, and flat on your back like a pancake, with the nightmares stacking up, and dripping with strawberry syrup.
the dove labored by his own beak; the last breathed breath
lungs are filled with the salt of the sea **** to the shackled, the non-free do you care, or is it a play to see what you can get breathe in what's left of the clean we polluted divinity diluted of air cleared, not yet
The Himalayas is our allotted Dwelling place prepared For my tribe by Yeshua, who Brought us forth from the ground As high as he saw fit, Days before earth Knew not the scent Of men.
Now Peace shrouded my face From the eyes of men Until irksome expeditions Instigated by the Brits, Forever polluted Me with their rotting flesh; Refusing to yield, till summiting Me, the tallest In my tribe, was Made within reach.
Woe, My days are spent Collecting forsaken filth And fresh victims Enticed by their Arrogance and lead By their ego, to be Humbled by Yours truly.
Walk along the riverbed. You will come upon a nymph, Aged and smooth As a riverstone Sighing and singing with The water’s flow Ask her, “How are you, Nymph?” And she will Smile Up at you and say “I am but a tired soul In a tired sea Of tired souls.” Her voice the soft bubbling of the river.
Walk among the trees. You will come upon a dryad, Ridged and furrowed As the tree limb Upon which she sat as she watched The leaves fall with the autumn breeze Ask her, “How long have you sat here, Dryad?” And she will Gaze Down at you and say “I grow and grow old With the tree. And the tree has grown tired.” Her voice the raspy crinkle of the fallen leaves.
Walk amidst the flowers. You will come upon a deva, Light and sweet As the honeysuckle she sat amongst Watching and humming with The many bees Ask her, “Who are you, Deva?” And she will Frown Away from you and say “We, those of us that Belong To this place, We are Afraid. And we wish to no longer be Afraid.” Her voice the wavering stems of delicate flowers.
The nymph chokes on her sisters' remains as the dryad is cut down and shredded and the deva is forced into restrained clay pots.
They cannot be freed by one but by the response of all.