science should slip back into the slit of our mouths but science is in silence at the ones with molded maggot ridden bodies as they stand taller then the trees so they own the trees they own us give us paper with our number in line to walk off the edge of the earth with crosses made from our bones after they shoot us in the back of the head before we can claw our eyes out from their hungry hands, you will live the rest of your existence in a quivering hand, wrists up and a bloody mouth, wrists down.
how quiet will you be when there is nothing left to take from what used to be an forever giving world.
YOU ARE READING
Cut Me Up
PoetryIt's bitter and bloody in the end baby, doesn't matter if you are a saint or a sinner. We all die wishing this wasn't it or how it was or how it happened. How horrible is it to still be what remains. ©eve pritchard
