Spreading Have you ever felt like your sitting in your own despair Filth covers you, and soaks your hair. You take showers baths, but you still can not get the Filth of your hands. Working hours. Endless shifts day and nights Afternoon and morning dims The world has its own brim. Though it spilling over with my constant tiffs. My eager interactions, my silent sniff. This world is not prepared. The smile that lifts a ban. Our world is nothing, But ready to disband. The blood is on your hands. We burn the trees to a crisp. Oil runs through the st=reats, And we take the heat. The sky is not lifted, Though it's crumbing. The birds do not sing, The swan do not swim, they seap, The dogs do not bark, they weep. The blood is on our hands. The questionable action that we disbanded. The question that circles out of hand. When is it our turn to take a stand?
