Like the talons attached to an otherwise, free bird;
A catch of its jagged edges, never we mind;
The snagging of a delicate thread – loss for word;
The snuffing out of the scent we’ve scattered to find.
The upheaval of oceans otherwise, swallowed depths;
The crash of its tumbling ledges, never we satisfy;
The repetitive histories of nations – not too many left;
An evolution into something born and bred of genocide.
Beneath the shifts in the shelves of the Earth,
Fed by the deepest roots of each living, breathing tree;
Beneath the magma and beyond the light of time’s birth,
Lays a carbon copy of everything we think and see.
Like a paper fortress amidst in the twirl of a tumbleweed;
Laced with spores off the floors that we stand in line to lick clean,
We are filthy – this thing called “humanity” – there’s no denying;
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