SCATTERED BETWEEN THE ROOTS
Prosperity Gospel
we're exhausted by the days,
we're wheezing through the nights.
our duty is to pass without a trace,
pack it in, pack it out.
these graves are hidden,
not surrounded by plastic mountains,
small footstones slowly carpeted by ash,
becoming starry with soot as history burns away.
before your nerves relate the noose around your neck,
a quiet death leaves you scattered between the roots.
blood soaking into leaves and dust,
a quiet death leaves nothing eternal behind.
who would force an heir,
when the keys to the kingdom are lost?
let them tarnish and dissolve.
no one to know, no reason to care,
these graves are mental,
placeholders where life never existed.
a psychic totem receives your suffering.
avoid another needless entrance into a worthless world!
