The World

Mother is being pulled by the hair,
When we breach her cells, we throw our hands up,
We surrender her unto the dead among us.
We do not fight because we are numb.

When will he arrive from the mountains?
A homemade Jesus, covered in dirt,
Walking slowly, giving us a chance,
Before he arrives, to give us the truth.

How much more blood will surge?
A waterfall to fill a pool of hatred,
We feed the beast, it hungers for more,
Oh Jesus, speed, we are in need of wisdom.

A human dies and we ferociously lament,
A species goes extinct, and we shrug.
We melt the world, our ground is shrinking,
We cannot stop for fear of being thrown off.

Surely she will take back her domain,
As I listen to the knife sing, I hear her,
A static hiding behind every cohesive sound,
Begging me to stop and listen, beneath the leaves.

We blind her with smoke, suffocate her.
We scrape the minerals from her bones,
We suck the oil from her veins,
We burn her hair to plant our own seeds.

I can hear her scream, through the static,
A woman passes my window, wearing heels,
They click to the beat of Mother’s rapid breaths,
This woman is unaware and continues on.

Deep within the silent scream I find myself,
Another one of her children, made from flesh.
We live only because we were chosen; we hold life.
Yet we murder our mother, we are condemned.

As I run against a million faces and words,
I cry out, but nobody hears me,
The sound of coins falling catches all ears,
They swarm towards it, I run away.

Other children fight for her, ignoring the mechanisms,
Of the machine that reaches higher and higher,
The machine calls my clock everyday to drag me,
From my bed, I allow these things, I feel helpless.