We all know
the world
will cave
eventually,

because all
things
must surely
die.

I know
how the planet
will look after,

(just like the
rotting stomachs
of all the
early mothers)

and I know
how we will be
destroyed when,

(lava will flow
over the plains,
and ash will fill the air,
as king tornadoes
devour our precious cities)

and we will lose
our lush pieces
of natural flesh.

We are no trees grown from the earth.
We are no dead birds or dried up fish.
We are not made of mud or rocks.
We are just the stupid wile of human.

Rings have dropped
faster from our
withered fingers
than any buildings
will split,
and the crack
of our knees
will mirror
the sands falling
into the vulgar,
as the rot
of berries
turns to gold
when all sweetness
has been lost.

We will be shocked along with the lightning sublime,
and we will fall from the stumbling of statues,

their stoned feet
like a grand
rind
we could only pray
to suck at.

We will wear
our entities
like brackets
at our sides,
and then demolish them,
as everything else,
like smashed pretty faces.

We will rush
to the seas,
the new dormant
beds of hope,

and tell me
now,
wouldn't you
rather
live
inside
that well placed
shroud
of the misty
blur?