We are at home; a heedless hibernation

Wherein man’s brutal thoughts dine on
Man’s innocent feelings

At home we are
But at home can’t we feel anymore
For thus a tragic transformation in living
That none ever prepared to settle or
Prevent one of

Man is dining on man’s heart
To profit himself as a lucrative
He skins his mates
He sells his siblings
He batters his senses
Just to live, only to survive.

And in the wild,
Children cry,
They bramble for peace
But their swollen abdomens, sigh by
Their mothers, they scuttle in the dark
Sell their hidden thighs
And render the rusty coins for crumbs
And they feed them, to rescue their fragile lives.

At home we, but at home can’t we feel anymore.

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