[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.
YOU ARE READING
Small Little Things of A Small Little Mind
De Todo*I do not own the picture* Alright, this is my little playground of writing. Literally, completely random.