Feeding The Wyrm

Feeding The Wyrm

We end the beginnings
and run away fast
to seek out the endings
that bury our past.

Like little white mice,
we can't find our way.
We're caught in the cruelty
of lines colored gray.

A swipe of the plastic,
a charge to confirm
no one has spoken,
it wasn't their turn.

A soiled old man
way down at the station,
lay dead by the rails
from life's degradation.

The masses are starving
and no one will care.
Souls are heard screaming
from pain they still bear.

The rich look upon us
from high golden thrones
while feeding their greed
and picking our bones.

They'll unleash the demons
of death and despair,
then gaze upon corpses,
grotesque in their stare.

Hunger feeds anger
and hatred grows teeth
and Hell holds the pits
for the bodies beneath.

As wealth feeds the wealthy
so does their greed
and so does the wyrm
for he has been freed.

When the haves have it all
and multitudes wail,
who bears the cross
when societies fail.

The day may be coming
and soon we'll all know,
who makes up the rules
as the billionaires grow.

So the hunger once sated
shall now know no friend,
the greed is gold plated,
and a means with no end.

For the little white mice
have become quite extinct
and the hunger has need,
the choice is distinct.

The Wyrm then turns
in the cold rain and hail,
with scant hesitation
... it devours it's tail .