Streaks of something yesteryear born
still may sit unattended on one’s cheek.
Made were things to use
yet now no light casts down for dust’s sake.
We pass the garbage in search for new
only to leave a slimy trail of destruction.
Making hair twisting screams
curdled by the few who care.
Where do we begin
except to not?
Brash are those born by brash
to brash they will go from brasher still.
A world engulfed by no second thought.