A quiet death
befalls the forest.
Giants that once towered magnificent
lay their heads in the graves of their children.
Weeping the word nevermore before they become
just that.
The earth heaves a final breath.
A death rattle echoes throughout nature and she finally
gives up.
With charcoal eyes and stinking breath,
beasts claw through her flesh,
roaring, creaking, screeching in dull mechanical tones that redefine the word
terror.
Because this is not terror.
This is genocide.
A quiet death is not a fit description.
It is quiet because we refuse to listen.
It is silent because we have smothered their cries.
We do not see it until it's too late.
A motorist looking
up
Just as he crashes.
A leopard is caught in the crossfire of an unwarranted bloodbath.
Crushed under a steamroller,
finally she becomes one with her home.
A gore-slimed mess of splinter and marrow left behind,
embodied in an advert pasted.
(Her death makes more money than her life ever could)
Irony is printed on a poster that bears the words
'Save our planet,'
Encompassed in the shreds of what it tries to preserve.
Our planet is comprised of wonders.
What a shame to tear it apart.
YOU ARE READING
Anathema
PoetryMy sexuality and desperation to love myself are constantly at war. Somehow, I always lose
