American Nightmare

I woke today and stumbled out of bed, And there beside me was, to my surprise, Two bulbous eyes atop a lumpy head. He spoke, at last, about the way our skies Are filled with smoke; the scar of our neglect and disregard; those things not quite pristine Are junked for lack of novelty, reflect on all the pain you've felt, the hurt you've seen. A hobo sobs alone amid the crowd, the hunger lingers on, the streets his bed, To him the simple things are not allowed, He often wants to sleep and wake up dead. The creature's rant revealed the truth to me, On earth, we are our own archenemy.

1 comment:

  1. This is great piece. The last line reminded me of this qoute from Abraham Lincoln:

    "If destruction be our lot, we must ourselves be its author and finisher."


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