Cruentation

This wrecked world seems to bleed a bit
Wherever, whenever we lay our hands on it.

It bleeds viscous oil. It bleeds vicious plastic.
We desperately hunger to vote to convict,

But it gets so complicated—we’re the jury,
We’re the judges, we’re the executioners,

And in every decision we execute, we hang
More of us, become more of our ghosts—if

There ever was an original victim’s
Corpse buried underneath all of this,

We should admit we all wanted to kill it,
To render it, to decompose and compost

It because we’re it.