A Grim Unfortunate Tale

It’s an uncertain world of chaos,

We fake normalcy here.

Its winds have lung diseases,

Its air full of shocking breezes.

Houses one on another,

Packed like wolves but against each other.

With eyes lying and as washed clothes drying,

Its humans drenched in malice

have their souls dried out of love,

Under the sun’s scorching heat,

Losing its grace in squalor and flood.

With haunting cries of trees at night,

The world has become a pitiful sight.

In media and its loud horrors,

This race has been broken down,

The rats still eat the mat, but,

they run to

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o for the power of the crown.

It’s an unfortunate tale,

That behind merry faces

lies a spirit grim and pale.

In all this mess and song of distress,

We have replaced rivers with mirrors,

And thus, no true reflection we see,

Ignoring our spirit’s innate plea.

In the ocean of the universe, we’ve lost ourselves,

Left with the race to be crowned

but never to be truly found.

Coleridge I suppose, rightly said,

That the albatross’ carcass around the neck,

Is a guilt that mankind shall forever endure,

Until it finds a parallel cure.

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