gods of trash

Would you rather be
ground or the seed?
Sage advice.
Spice bought the safe way
brokered through the slave trader
instituted by our savior who
occupiers and wage workers
sing the praises stern.
Cracking knuckles dusted
with the gilded charms
that grew our arms and dropped them
where there once were trees.
Now children cry and men deny
the poor forever worthless.
Ground to blood
the ancient ways
of tools we kept
long before we bore inept.
And slept away the birthing pains
of an endless swirling lust.
Lost their luster at the touch
the seeds often hunger
and wonder at the world above
while ground clutches
and cries no more
of a future it once saw in the grass.
The beak of a bird
in murderous flight
snatch up its filthy treat
apostate to its crime.


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