Of Morbid Humour

Laughed at a cartoon dog killing cartoon rabbit. Smothering it. Called it "morbid humour". Dark. Deep. A hole without visible bottom that you smile at, knowing if you just set one foot forward, you'd be swallowed. Knowing, Death has been insatiable lately. Has humanity in a bear's embrace we shall all face, and most of us will live, but some of us will fall to the tune of the jingling in an unjust few's purses. Of the projected profits left behind by workless corpses. Has gripped the vulnerable by the throat and cast them aside, on a pile of miserable, ended lives stacking further and further upwards, but never reaching the soles of our oppressors' shoes to sully them. Our wheezing is money. Our commodity has expired. Our money is percentages rising and falling, multiplying the lot and dividing the few. For tis the law of the land: Its lords are fruitless, fruit trees we water till they have drunk themselves dead, and us thirsty. An old joke, all that. But I am of bad humour. Of sad humour. And if we don't cast the first stone at those who sin against us, We may as well have lost. Our bodies in bags, our lives in pieces, Our living kin at borrowed hearths, without us. We will have decency and compassion, in these times, so recently ashen. Our cinders will rain down, like viral spawn, like germs. We, the many: listen to our terms.