Squirrels crack the wombs of seedlings
monkeys do this too
hawks take them
snakes bite them
all this done for food

Sinners burn bridges
the faithful do this too
they feed the flames
they walk away
all this over what is good

There’s profit to be had
in sins and the blues
blues singers believe in music
money pays their dues
they say that’s how it ought to be

we love catchy platitudes
we hollowly repeat
“love yourself”
in the mirror
only to be estranged
from own refelctions

we’re strange when we’re being ourselves
and after all this time
the evidence cannot stop mounting
all the words written, recited, screamed
spoken, sung, painted
or carved into the wall of a porta-potty

It’s no wonder
that this Frankenstein universe doesn’t stop moving
it doesn’t share our ego
yet it cannot be escape the echoe of our grief
can you blame it?
for leaving us
to inherit the Earth