it’s survival here, nothing new
lungs knotted by thirst
sunheat in our heart, starving to belong
it’s corrupt the way
the social feeds are telepathic
last chance for freedom
not likely, when water goes on the stock-markets
I’m pinned by this world
like as the love for my criminal child
the kind of wound that
is never quite urgent enough to heal
but sticks around like deformity
“heal the world”, there are too many
bodies you say to feed the planet
it’s survival down here, at the ends
stomach growling to be someone
heart’s pitter-patter against the gloom
our fragility was really contagious
the world learned how
to suffer together, it was a kind
of progress, to realize we all belonged
to the same economy, a doomed currency
where the sun was thrown, raised and lowered
for the number of years we had left
before some tipping point of our…
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Viv Drewa - The Owl Lady 