It ain’t nothing but some galactic mathematical equation being played out,
In backwards time.
Everything is wrong. All told and telling.
Genocide on my plate.
Raw feeling overspilling—
Genocide small and large everywhere.
Eco-terrorists, the lot of us,
“Progressing” by chocking earth and sea in plastic.
Exiled from balance,
From the core feminine.
How is this chaos rendering?
Why are we led?
Are we even seen?
Why do we even act?
What can it all possibly lead up to?
Can there really be meaning, at such scale?
Even if there was, would it ring true?
Or, as Terry Pratchett implied—
It’s all a game.
So which side is winning?