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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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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Filed under Poetry
Tagged as blank verse, capitalism, class warfare, conflict, creative writing, creativity, environmentalism, equality, exploitation, free verse, greed, metaphor, poetry, social activism, social commentary, wealth