Cockroaches
The glittering palace you have built—
layer upon layer of corpses pressed beneath its flawless floors,
a spotless habitation without a stain in sight.
Beneath robes of dazzling white
you conceal the smears of blood, hatred, and lust—
but they will lick those garments clean.
They will tear apart your arrogance,
your shameless spectacle of grandeur.
Crawling, swarming, unending,
they will seep into your gardens of heaven,
defiling your ornate throne with their filth.
Those whom atoms could not annihilate,
whom fire could not consume,
whom water could not drown—
how will your greasy hands bear
the burden of their putrid bodies,
their weary, exhausted lives?
You are a merchant of blood,
while their veins run dry.
Tell me—
how will you ever rid yourself
of these millions upon millions
of cockroaches?