Hands slash down the forest.
If you have two legs you’re guilty.
The rain pours down; flash flooding is inevitable.
Your souls collect in the mucky sewage water; you don’t smell the stench.
‘Is one to be one’
The crows love your souls.
They deposit you like seeds in droppings on new land; the wasted land.
Roots grow in the compost.
‘Please don’t be the walking dead’
Scales tip in the sunshine.
One side lives.
One side dies.
This is our land.