Your cocoon
You are in your little sanctuary of peace.
Cooped up in a cocoon, warm, and safe,
from the falling trees, the dying bees,
or the crying shores of deep blue seas.
You are oblivious, for you're protected,
from the fights of race, the language of genders
or the impacts of political sleaze.
You're swaddled in comfort without a worry,
for you don't have to battle a broken democracy,
or the ugly outfits of corrupt bureaucracy.
You don't know where the borders end
and how lives begin,
or end.
New lines, new lives.
Here's how we roll,
to the very end.
You don't hear what you ought to hear.
The sound of gunshot blaring in your ears,
the smoke of fire-crackers suffocating you whole,
or the cries of suppression – a radio silence.
Walls are built to protect and divide.
To divide, and to rule.
It's a power structure – a fool's tool.
You're comforted, and taken care of.
But not for long, for the cocoon will break.
Then you shall see, there's no beauty;
in being a transformed butterfly, a moth or a wasp.
You flutter into this mean world,
only to be caught in a cobweb; not of a spider's,
but one spun from lies and deceit.
One that masks the truth and paints fiction,
in pretty flowers and delicate threads
that seem innocent.
Forests burn, rivers run dry, people take to the streets –
crying, killing, fuming, and holding on to the last few strands of humanity,
hoping for love, hoping for peace, hoping for light.
Here’s your new sanctuary of peace.
Your Caim, if you please:
Your brain will implode, and you will die –
a slow ravenous death.
On your way you shall poison the remaining bits
of a dried up a river with your rotting carcass,
of mica glitter and silicone fills.
There’s no going back to your cocoon of calm.
Like many of us, you will be stuck, counting on distant memories of a placid past, questioning the present and lingering, lingering until the end of time, without a clue.
Your cocoon – an escape from the drudgeries of this helpless, dying world.
Your cocoon reeks;
a nasty stench of privilege and preach.