THIS WORLD
- Dark Poets Club
- Oct 6
- 1 min read
By Daniel Sowa
Evil grows like moss in cracks;
Good, a sickly dove, barely lifts its wings.
Millennia of trampling men like cigarette butts.
We build arks from cardboard words,
Yet knives slide in with precision.
The archive of wrongs grows,
Drowning cries in ad noise.
Strange?
The strangeness is ours.