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edition of 50
Once upon a time, in the land of the butterfly
suspiciously, prosperity began to decline.
In an ecosystem rich with photosynthesis technicians
it wasn't hard for plants to glisten using sunshine as life.
And then there were colonies stopped.
Families of hummingbirds and honeybees dropped,
and there were scores of trees chopped,
and the little, insignificant,and obliterated critters
who were weakened with the winter became quick and easy dinner
for the fastest, baddest, calloused, carnivorous prowess
whose insatiable malice left them unmatched and unchallenged
with an advantage to ravish families so savagely famished
by the unexpected climate, changing the days into damaged goods.
And in the woods, rodents would die where once they would play,
owls circling surveyed lands would say,
"Well what do we bring home now to give what we make,
in this unbalanced world where you can only give and not take?"
Because to take is a given if you give all you can,
and that given has given responsibility to man,
who have entered the fields with their wheels and deals,
and peeled them to pain, funding factories for fast-food meals
that rain dollar-bills into pockets already filled with bullets and pills,
making the rich even richer and the ill much more ill.
Casually, while I was thinking about the world mathematically
I realized the remainder to the problem was absurdity and tragedy.
Not to mention the despondence that comes with thinking about decay,
but if you want to be serious about society certain puzzle pieces must be displaced.
Take the butterflies for granted, you'll manage to scare the breeze away.
And the community made of beauty will trade purpose in for hate,
and no wonder drugs and hunger infiltrate the state,
where the animals go extinct and where the greedy populate
Because now the land of the butterfly is a myth.
It's just a memory of beauty that used to exist,
and the ecosystem's finished, it's been diminished to dwindling roads
that you can ride across countries when there's nowhere to go.
Now we're just circles, circling around circles of souls,
that have circled existence, leaving graveyards for homes.
I have been patient for the moons of other worlds to visit,
but they did not pull my oceans. No, they did not calm my night.
So I stare at the pearl that orbits around our sad little world.
It's saying, "There's still life in motion. Nothing's more lively than the tide".