By Jenna Reimer
We are born into this machine;
A madhouse of thieves and fakes
That prowl an exhausted land
Riddled with deceased trash.
We live and breathe these ruins.
We hear the sadness from the pack of hatred,
We crawl and pace and scream
Not knowing what death is,
And never knowing we are already dead.
The stench of rotting flesh,
The cry of old men and tired women,
The dead eyes of children,
Is the music of this life-
This life of misguided hope
And expired dreams.
Such a deafening sound.
Such a crumbling beauty,
Is the echo of elephants.
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