Carrion

The beasts who feed upon dead flesh,
Are no different to those in suits.
Matted fur or wings like night,
Or some gentleman in shinny boots.

The horror of the deeds men do,
Leave rivers flowing with blood.
The flow of such man made things
Can't be fully understood.

Yet as a race we create the feast,
Until our lineage can't be reborn,
But we will never ever stop the carnage,
We create, and are the carrion.

Sit behind desks, if you choose.
And peruse your figures and your facts,
Comfortable with your profit and loss,
Scales will not be balanced by your acts.

View your empire from a safe haven,
Surround yourselves with mighty walls,
Remember revolutions my dears,
And how the aristocracy did fall.

When time and time again the humble pay,
When from their world you take your bite,
Remember, teeth can leave impressions
So can the taking of a life!

You think your legacy lives and evolves?
Perhaps! Yet perhaps it never should.
But perhaps a feast for the most vile of beasts,
A rotten banquet in the mud.