How fertile is your field
means little to the bull
you keep feeding him, taking shit
he makes sure the field is full
the cows will stand there chewing
making food for food that feeds
to become the rare in the flames ensuing
or just be the one that breeds
big, empty round eyes stare blank
at the reality they always miss
where it was once death before dishonor
how did it come to this
keep on opening that mouth wide
and stand there masticating
smile some more, wait for the flash
time for the eviscerating.
the daily grind will slowly feed you
into your own intestines
imploding force fed fallacies
from the failure you’re investing
through the machine you’re processed
and packaged for consumption
or discarded when it is discovered
that you have no useful function
you fertilize the field
and the bull shuffles it’s feet
just another cycle
that is destined to repeat.