fed
with toxic ego and lust.
Its
bluish eyes hath reddened sore
like
it hath never been before.
Its
odorous breath stinks of death,
for
its glorious beauty had shrunk
into
a crooked vale of crust and dust.
The
cheerful chirping of the chicks
awaits
their mother ripped by war.
Its
thunderous boom scares the dove
and
erases all tales of joy and love.
All
its greenness wear a wearied look,
leaving
its beauties only in books,
to
see and feel with wistful eyes
what
wondrous wonder the world hath worn.
As
a son of global mother,
men
art father of their actions.
He
treads on his mother’s chest
and
lays bare the breast he suckled.
In
a world we talk much of beauty,
the
ugliest thing is our action.
Weeps
the world at such sickened sons.
-Rinchey
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