All the bugs
Crawl through your lungs
And eat your guts
Everything that's in you is not enough
They'll roast you on a spit for days
And you will become grass blades
That's all that happens when you die
No loss of spirit to earth or sky
Just a long trudge off a short cliff
Then into the abyss
Never to walk again
Maybe instead of corrupt we could attempt
Making this as best
As possible as could be lived
So our future generations are left
With less contempt
And more imagination
On planetary
Brotherly
And Self-
Preservation
| 
Email this Poetry
| 
Add to reading list
