Cruelty or Kindness
A nocturnal bug laments,
He buzzes around street lights and complains.
In the days of pristine old,
When coal was yet to be burned to boil water to gold,
Young torrents were yet to be shred by the steel blades of turbines bold,
Protons were yet to be split, and the Womb of nature was yet to be blown.
To generate electricity, which the man standing on the window sill loves more and more.
Forefathers swarmed at fires on earth, some natural some lit by his fore fathers,
Danced the crescendo of passion, till they were consumed by her flaming motion.
Today and going forward,
I fly around poles, only to hit glass walls, behind which lurks the Neon moll,
I can never now know thanks to the man standing on the window sill aloft,
What is to be devoured, by the love of your life.
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