We, the New World Savages,
Crush, Consume, even the dust
left from burned-out tragedies.
The crying children, imagine them,
Blown up and scattered like seeds,
Seeds of death, blossoming
in the fields of wealth, fed
by a stream-of-consciousness-need
for corpulent greed. Oh, but “free”
isn’t free, we’ve chained them,
hobbled, shattered knees.
Only to feed the Machine
that feeds Herd
that eats the Dust
of the Dead
© CGT, 2017.