A moss of metal mesh overlooks cliffs,
Seas of cyanide pulse from their black pits.
Poison veins to glasses pressed to foul lips
We could never give two ----- or a ----…

Our souls diluted, no good can we sift.
The hearts of veterans reduced to cysts.
Spirits of our youth turn to blackened mists.
And from what’s sacred humanity drifts…

But our hearts are not cold to dying earth
From our flesh, seeds of compassion are sewn.

Darkened lips draw poison from tainted souls
The blackest taste becomes compassions firth.

The cyst erodes from mists, making hearts known.
Young souls oversee earth from veins of gold.