Infliction

Earth.

We walk on tainted dirt
Painted rocks and walls of art
Like nothing will ever happen to it.

Like one day when the sky
Is full of raging choppers
And bombs fall to eradicate all that you know.

Or when crimson brown stains
Of someone you once knew
Have doused your art and painted rocks.

How is it that war
Is vowed but yet
We treat it as if it isn't forthcoming.

More or less we act as if
It is nothing more than a speculation.
When really, all we've ever known is hostility.

Fields will crumble and tear
Because the hands of our nature
Have become formidable to the cracks in the Earth.

A blanket of anger will wash over the ambient sky
Because the only feeling we can administer now
Is that of a storm; petulance.

We are undeserving of this planet we have been given.
We are the dregs of the ground
Because what we have done to the mass we were supposed to care for
Is unforgivable.

Maybe one day
A curing will transpire.
Maybe one day someone will solace and inspirit
This Earth.