Monsters Called People

These flowers turn a deep color of orange,
Burning in the demise of those who care
The world looks on as they wilt and fall
These monsters called people just sit and stare.

The disturbing beauty of this long nightmare,
This inescapable hurt and pain,
The horror, the closeness of death at hand,
It’s all we can do to keep ourselves sane.

This knife in his hand, this gun in her mouth,
The things we don’t realize, the secrets we keep,
A jump from a bridge, a fall to our death,
The irreversible move into infinite sleep.

White linens turn red with shards of glass
Broken mirrors drowning needless martyrs,
The torn up paper of a lost love poem,
Life turned cold with unfair sorrows.

Populations are dead, their loved ones buried
Falling to dust within their own hate
As the urn is filled the gravesites dug,
There’s nothing anymore, it’s far too late.

We’re plagued by wars and self-inflicted wounds
This sickness seeps through cracks under doors
Its hard to believe how free it once was
Eventually we’ll all fall lifeless to the floor.

Mountains loom over the browning fields
Crops are withered nothings left to grow,
It’s all gone its shriveled and spent,
If there’s anything left, we won’t ever know.

The sea sparkling blue from deep in the valley
The sad faces in the back of the morgue
The massacre of children, lying dead on the streets
This is what has become of our world.