The World is Bleeding
It's said, "The world will bleed away."
It bleeds and bleeds—one pint a day.
A blood as bland as monochrome,
as voices in an echo-dome.
The drooling masses lap it up.
And lick the anchor's shiny cup.
With honeyed words that tickle ears.
Or doomsday chants, neurotic fears.
One pint a spew of ink on page;
the next a clip to bait our rage.
More deep-fake, cheap-fake, viral slop,
all gobbled up without a thought.
They swipe until their thumbs fall numb.
Each point-less short a tasty crumb.
And reach into their crinkly bag,
to find a byte with which to brag.
It flows and flows—a crimson hue.
False words—a bitter cud to chew.
When idle hour courts lazy mind,
and sightless ones dare lead the blind.
When wars are waged on field and screen.
Whilst rumor mills redraw the scene.
It's said, "The world will bleed away."
The things I see—I fear it may.
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