Green fields grow dead, white trees,
gleaming in the sun, pretending at life.
Fed on blood and manure,
the trees stand still.
The beast devours children,
shits them out,
and we feed it more, and more, and more.
It keeps our fields green,
our memories cleaned.
other excrement that once breathed,
they’re hidden from our eyes.
rock and dirt and sand.
Death hides behind platitudes,
valor, honor, heroism,
and we stare at the dead white trees,
the green fields,
the mimicry of life.
We feed the beast the hearts of our children,
build meaning from its shit,
and tell ourselves our hands are clean.