Beautiful blood droplets that splatter on the cold dank pavement
There used to be life here, but now all that remains are the blood red caricatures
Like chalk drawings at crime scenes – and they were once alive
And the air smells like black – devoid of the sweet aroma of blooming spring life.
The world is a dying tree, whose bark is stripped to make coffins
And like in the fall, crumbling leaves fall to the ground, whispering of death’s advances.
The world’s inhabitants return to the dust from whence they arose,
Buried six feet deep, under grass and dirt,
Umpteenth coffin in the ground screams unforgettable cries for help.
Ground is damp, saturated red
Tears are shed, but when does the madness end?
Crying eyes don’t produce justice, tears are shed in vain.
Eyes are blinded by the droplets, so that they don’t have to observe the problematic world state
Blindness won’t solve our problems
There’s no escape until we’re dead