This world can not be saved
not from us
not from the murderers
not from the writers or poets
nor the political promise of the buried dead
it must suffer at our hand
our cowardly calloused hand
the gibbet of history looming large
we, the scaffold in it's treacherous shadow
this world can not be saved
not from us
not from the proliferation of the atom
not from the genius of a Nobel mind
nor the terror of a hungry belly
it must suffer at our disgression
at a choosing of our time
it is not safe
from the madman or the sane man
who share a common lodging
nor will it find shelter in its own harbours
refuge in its oceans
oxygen in its air
it is not safe
not from us
it must bear the weight of our footprint
it must suffer the wounds of destruction
the infrastructure of abhorrence
it is not safe for the lungs of life
it can not breathe our poisoned fumes
it must suffer in our orbit
perish in our banality
clothed in ill fitting rags of indifference
this world can not be saved
it is not safe
Not from us
YOU ARE READING
Weird Reads
PoesíaPoems & Prose to read when your coffee is on the brew. A mixture of the light and dark in life. Strange writing from the pen of a weird mind. Caution advised before reading.
