THE RITES OF SPRING
Counting spiders instead of bombs
In unknown cellars distracts
Children from death, like toys
Distract from nightmares. What
If eyes don’t close until bombs
Outnumber the spiders and
The cellars collapse while the
West watches and keeps paying
For bloodied oil and coal?
Fossils are skeletons hidden in
Collapsed cellars and dungeons, fuels
Formed from the remains of living
Organisms that are now still
Sentient, have bad dreams and fears,
Love and laughter, melancholy,
Try to escape from underground to
The open air and sun and peace,
Only to die in the soil.
History is cannibalism by the
Wealthy we are, feeding on deaths
Of millions far way, their last
Breath carried through pipelines
From massacre to western hearths.
We warm ourselves on the souls
Of a genocide a short flight away
Where spiders feed on the shadows
Of distracted children.
AGGIE’S ART OF HAPPINESS – CHAPTER 54