Conflict

Missile to missile is where we are now

Mano a mano

Is strictly quaint

A caricature of conflict

Which now trades body blows for rows of body bags

Blood running as deep as black ops unhinging

Each Pandora’s box on this green earth

Where Eden has been fracked and strip-mined

Into an unsettling distortion that screams into the black night

Like a twelve year old sex slave before she’s drilled into submission

This green earth that has been pissed on far too much

Scorched into barrenness

Until its skin dries up and is carried away on the wind

It’s not the accumulation of wealth but the hoarding of it

That cudgels our collective whimper like any vicious overseer

Cancerous growths of unmitigated greed eat the body politic

To death

Evil commodified

Quarterly reports don’t include sins of the profit margin

Factory slaves who die in tumbled grief

A middle class outsourced to pay for higher gates and broader lawns

For the fearful few who totter on their towers of transitory wealth

Waiting for a realization of impossibility

Ignorant of the weight of the sewers filled with their misgivings

Flushed with success

 

 

David Trudel   © 2013

 

 

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