A Passing Thought

The world writes poetry for children
Speaks of flowers, romance and love.
Speaks of highways that lead to everywhere
and clouds that nurture the earth.

The world writes a poetry of its dreams
while it lies covered in newspapers,
sleeping broken on the pavements.
It speaks of caviar and champagne
whilst it stomach rumbles
in violent convulsions of pain.

It's hard to find a blank page
in her vast and crowded book,
for those sleeping in its abattoirs,
like cattle cradled by the hooks.

The world writes a poetry
of hidden meanings and truths
while our lives remain uncharted,
like the dark side of the moon.
It doesn't say of caterpillars that die
before ever getting the chance
to become a butterfly.
Or its silent power chords and cables,
that roam the earth with calm.
Professing lifes exquisiteness,
to prisoners
of style and class.

I suppose the world's the greatest poet.
that has ever been alive
For finding never ending beauty
in this loathsome hornet hive.
For speaking gently of our delusions,
as we take it in, all knowing,
that good things last less than illusions.