Prose Of Death

What makes us unique
Are we developed?
Are we more evolved?
A sense of false improvement

Where no one cares for the next
Where no one cleans up the mess
Where no one gives a fuck
Where we all run out luck
What makes us all is what we have?
Are we less callous?
Are we less jealous?
This lingering prose of death
Where no one cares for the next
Where no one cleans up the mess
Where no one gives a fuck
Where we all run out luck