Death as entertainment and it is Broken Bad.

Death as entertainment and it is Broken Bad.

Crushed under foot,

Boots blindly trod

Over tender green shoots,

Struggling for life,

Through the cracks

In a cinder block

World.

The bones of recovery

Ground into the dust

Of another barren day.

When the promise

Of spring

Is blown away,

On a sterile,

Scouring

Changeable wind.

It blows, both hot

And cold.

Harvesting lies.

Sweeping the hopeful

Into dark margins.

Cutting a swathe

Through sleeping giants.

Playing with fear,

Nurturing the neglected,

In carefully

Selected moments,

So easily networked.

And cease fires,

Barely burning.

Die, before

Their flame is caught.

Doused by the tears

Of the fallen,

As war begets war,

And even the dead cry.