A poem inspired by The Muse of Cold Earth.
We flock to you,
Songless singers of
Quiet thought
Sublimated simulations of approximate humanity
Who could be considered childish
-While cowardly commandos rally chicks to war
-While so called heroes crush the fingers of timid mountain climbers
-While sudden-death rumors reign across the black pavement by the nest
Splattering eggs in every color
Forgetful miasma
Fingers touching the surface of the shallows
Never reaching out but
Drawing pretty pictures in the ripples of
The human statistics of daily death
paullang.blog 