Our land has become Death's brothel—
Collection of soft hands and hardened muzzles.
Lives canned to display strength or gain muscle,
Splattering remains in joyous, endless tussles.
It has turned to game, wrestling
The sane to deranged—nestling
A thirst for revenge and rendering
These actions Heavenly dependent.
Our fear provides the rumors
Gearing towards cowardly tumors—
Rearing a supply of awkward humor.
For as we rise from fumes of
The existential question comes to pressure:
What in life is there to treasure?
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Comments about this poem (Land by Edwin Cordero )
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