The old thrones are cracked and crumbling like worn leather,
we wait in a plume of dust.
Streams of water poisoning our hovels,
but we keep going.
The sun rises to another clear sky.
Beautiful red morning at the river of factories,
noise polluting.
Desperately clinging to the hope of the old rotting world,
chemical fear radiating from carcasses unaware of their sheepish existence.
Quietly in the shadows,
watching as they burn their own empire.
I’ll pick my teeth with the bones of my grandfather’s knowledge,
and walk my own path to the gallows.
Eat the fruit of the earth,
while the world erupts in artificial waves of long dieing.
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