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.