Past and present, rich and peasant, the hunter to the pheasant, things horrific and things pleasant.
The story of things old and new, the tale of things unjust and true, all checks and balances due, the ones who will own it few.
Up the pyramid we go, the truth that is our floor we throw, the agony that makes our ease we'd rather not know, all of a sudden interested in flakes in the snow.
Complacent to struggle and to those at our feet, absolving our reasoning as we cut our meat, staring straight ahead as we pass them in the street.
Hopeful it just goes away on its own, as if its up for debate that their flesh bone, without a second thought we lick our cone, lose ourselves in irrelevant things in our phone.
©pcmanpat
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