Eclipsed beneath the sweltering canopy.
Sweat, pouring from every orifice.
And for what, fear, servitude, country?
In the face of so much inhumane absurdity.
Alive, in the mud; though not truly living.
One cannot say this is life, nothing even close.
All that jumbles, and all that rots,
Here beneath the canopy where most is not.
The buzzing of days gone by,
The yearning of days yet to come,
Days existing within a distant, entirely uncertain future.
One men cannot ever hope to reach.
Indecision within every execution.
Nationalistic, heavy, redundant, feeble…
Man will always be man; there’s certainly no kidding.
Hidden, drowning, quivering in the mud.
Failing to stand up for those they reluctantly love.
Dead in the light that pushes through the thick leaves.
Men, silently begging as they’re relegated to their knees.
Unable to weep beneath the canopy.
For this is their life, all that turns the world.
Breathing the moisture of forgotten rain.
Trampling the bugs and creatures laid to waste.
This is life beneath the canopy…