WEED, THE PEOPLE

Led by foreign madness, we
– to long expected sleepless graves –
will swim to sink and drown in numbers
weighted down beneath the waves
with nothing left inside but shadows;
no-one left of worth to save.

In one end and out the other,
warring with psychotic pride, then
born again and made to suffer
– karmic purpose ill-forgotten –
each new chance at life, a buffer:
“Next time: change…” we chant inside.

Cycles written, history leaking,
sorely weeping through the pores
of growing wombs and offspring born
– another child of soulless form –
to breastfeed lies, imprisoned, shrieking
time again: disease repeating.

Sin ingested (soup for poor)
– the bile of shame and burden lost –
as people starve and lives are sold
and terrors planned to mind control…
and all the while our sickened bodies
hover, rotting, rank with worry.

Toll the bells – it’s time to breathe
and weed this horror from our conscience;
steer ourselves towards a pardon,
pave the way, resume our garden
seeding spirit, heart, and mind
with growth to bloom for one last time
or we, the people, incarnating,
won’t survive beyond our mating.

 

© Tamara Natividad | pisceanesque.com | Written 9th July, 2016

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