Our World Poem by Saint Cynosure

We walk upon a broken rock,
and bathe within its tears.
Although we've never heard it talk,
it has screamed for many years.
It has given to us all we have,
and everything we see.
We've taken from it everyday,
everything we need.
We've got from it the cotton soft,
on which we lay our heads.
We take from it all we eat,
and thanks is rarely said.
Sometimes it tries to shake us off,
but inside it holds our dead.
While we live our lives it pays the cost,
and thanks is rarely said.