Small Little Things of A Small Little Mind

Story, Maybe? I Don't Know. BLEH

[Something off the fly. Might be added on later? Probably moved if it's good.]

Years long past

the lives of the now,

past you and I,

a world chewed by

production

and consumption,

lays under soft slivers

of beaten dust and rock.

Cruelly abused by children

it birthed,

Nature has died.

Her ever-seemed

of everlasting heartbeats

has long since suffered

stress beyond repair.

Mother are you gone forever?

Children's children cry

everlasting in the night,

their own cruel hands written

in the dirt left bare,

and children left bruised,

and used for improper

trade methods.

Nature's child

is a monstrous

little heathen,

it's grin curled at the edges,

it's spindled fingers,

spindling it's strings

of puppet practice,

like it did in it's youth,

too long ago

to ever be retold again.

Nature's child,

now full-grown,

and moved from the cottage,

to encased globes,

now seen as caskets

for a child so murdered,

by it's parent's

blood-stained blade.

Now, butchered,

the dying race,

waits patiently.

A chance,

enlightened by little craftier,

tossed to the ocean

filled with sharks

with their helmets

tinted blue ironically.

Now the future is fruitful,

but only in usefulness

of the now.

A girl,

lies in the dark,

trapped by the fear

of demise

and scars so clear on her mind.

Fractured minds have no use here,

and they have no use for those like her,

Poor girl,

forced to strap a mask

to her face,

so torn by tears and shaking lips.

Sickened at practice,

but numb to the heart, now.

The mask glued to her face,

whose to tell if it's molded to her

very expressions?

Her job as an engineer

is geared to fixing up the holes,

of her withered home,

ships above,

casting a gray shadow over the dome,

her eyes glitter as if the angels

above still existed.

Interrupted by the screams

of yet, another sacrifice.

Towering mother,

glaring ahead at her son

so sent to wither away,

tethered by dirt,

suffocating under his uselessness.

A birth defect,

seen as a flaw to not ever be proven

as a defective.

They are so positive of the actions

that a soldier's grin is not so

strange to see in the shadows of the city.

Act now,

see that at that time,

a tree should never be watered,

if it has no fruit to bare.

Obscene, abnormal,

I hope that the words

of a poet as seen as fruitful

to the eyes of those,

so dreadfully corrupted.