I defy your exemption from this broken world.

So broken that there are a series of bubbles

for the oblivious, denying anything is wrong.

Slaves

I saw it break through each extinction event,

and yours is next, oh ye non-heeders of the

Ordovician-Silurian,

Devonian,

Permian-Triassic,

Triassic-Jurassic,

and, most recently, the

Cretaceous and then…

Are we not destroyers of species?

Us a mere species of slaves.

Your bubbles will pop into froth,

your self-deception will feign shock,

but I won’t.

Ignorance and idiocy prevail

In your quiet mansions

and the rest of your

decadent facades.

Slaves.

You think money will buffer you

during any crisis.

But when they come

knocking on your door for food, for supplies,

what will you say to them

before they ransack your temple,

a false success by worshipping wealth?

Slaves.

And we all fall short

because we are “comfortable,”

our own little bubbles chasing us around,

waiting for us to stop and

have that scotch, three fingers,

to ease the mind that all day

we were nerve-wracked to have

the cushions of doubt

upon our couches, our beds,

lulling us to sleep

after brain numbing “stories”

on the TV.

Slaves.

Even the poor seek means of comfort.

Slaves.

But slaves to what?

We’ve been warned.