The Indifferent and the Dead.

They're not ready    
to leave the tree.    
The little birds    
chirping merrily.      
They're too far    
into bliss,    
into life and its repetitive cycles.    
   
I'd equate them to pigeons    
lining their pockets in profitable seed.    
   
Their trunks,    
their branches    
and their leaves decay.    
   
Take their debts    
their sins,    
their Gods    
and set them adrift.    
   
In losing everything    
to death,    
and to despair    
I've detached from these pigeons    
their frantic fluttering    
for profitable seed    
matters not.    
   
To be the richest    
man in the world    
is to gather decay    
in the grave.    
You'll be buried    
in the soil with me    
and rot all the same.    
   
The decay prolonged    
in grieving.    
Taking hold    
in doubt    
and thriving    
in fear.    
   
They'll tear    
into the bark    
and feel    
its disease.    
They'll inhale the poisonous,    
colourless sickness    
corroding their souls.    
 
And when it's all said and done   
it'll be left to the two breeds of men - the Indifferent and the Dead.