DEAD WITHOUT REGARD

They're not ready
to leave the tree.
The little birds
chirping merrily.
They're too far
into bliss,
into life and its repetitive cycles.

I'd equate them to pigeons
lining their pockets in profitable seed.

Their trunks,
their branches
and their leaves decay.

Take their debts
their sins,
their Gods
and set them adrift.

In losing everything
to death,
and to despair
I've detached from these pigeons
their frantic fluttering
for profitable seed
matters not.

To be the richest
man in the world
is to gather decay
in the grave.
You'll be buried
in the soil with me
and rot all the same.

The decay prolonged
in grieving.
Taking hold
in doubt
and thriving
in fear.

They'll tear
into the bark
and feel
its disease.
They'll inhale the poisonous,
colourless sickness
corroding their souls.

And when it's all said and done
it'll be left to the two breeds of men -
The indifferent and the dead.