Extinction || Original Poem

The tired ground groans at the weight on his shoulders,

His hair is coarse and sharp, it coils and frames his body so eloquently yet threateningly 

His ancient skin is etched with wrinkles and crevices 

His bony fingers protrude up into the sky-

The few that are left have been stripped of any colour or life.

His tears no longer quench the thirst of the perverted ones that claim ownership over him,

they use to look after him, but now? Now look at him, they fertilise him with littered Bodies rather than fresh manure

they use to freely wonder and share. But now? Now their greed has grown far too vicious.

He longs for the days of old;

The days of green pasture and peace 

The days of leisure and laughter 

The days where he was watered with fresh spring streams of clear water, not rotting streams of curdling blood.

He tries to cry at what they have done to him but there is nothing left for him to cry. 

No energy. 

No life. 

No emotion. 

He is too tired to be livid now

Too worn to fight for his life 

And as he yearns for what was once his, all he can do is let out a small, pitiful groan. 

_

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