We are the dead

We are the dead, surrounded by the garbage
Deafened by the cries of dying earth.
Someone up there is feeling rather ill
And even Lucifer can find no mirth
In our destruction.

The nowness has a sword of Damocles
Poised, hanging over rubbish tips and litter.
Increasing effluence pours into the sea.
Someone perhaps up there is feeling bitter
At our destruction.

The future we will push onto posterity
Though some of us may for our children weep.
What can we do we say, and turn away.
Someone up there appears to sleep
Through our destruction.



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