Compost

We are the children of great men,
men who have elevated their people to insurmountable heights,
men who have built a microcosm of comfort and decadence.

Our forefathers have concluded that civilized society can exist when it is removed from its grisly origins,
entire lives can be lived in luxurious underdevelopment,
a second and third thought never needing to be spared.

We spring forth as the denizens of this grand society,
reaping the uncompromising spoils of our day and age,
privilege that has been rooted in blood and suffering and fire.

This fortuitous circle of life continues for you and I,
as those darkened faces remain at the bottom of the barrel,
for they are the inevitable byproduct of the unforgiving lives we lead.

We are stained with their blood,
we have drunk the tainted water for the entirety of our short and misleading existence,
and we will go on never knowing.

But still, what of those others, the ones we have left out to die?
The ones who will be forgotten and overshadowed by more applicable tragedies?
Will someone unearth their suffering from the malnourished ground lest we, their great saviors and executioners, forget them one day?

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