i'm over it

Human beings are not often kind unless they are mourning

I have yet to ask how it always comes to this
perhaps, I dare to know the answer:

People are pretty, people are delicate
the very replica of God himself
they remain so pretty and so vulnerable
not when they are unearthed but rather when they sit upon a shelf
quietly

These figures triple for packaged toys that have never once been opened
The term limited supply has haunted every artist who has died that went on to make a fortune
It was the heart of their work that has never once been considered
Just those pretty, pretty colours, in those pretty, pretty frames to hang in your pretty home, "oh, you have one of those? Such a rarerity, I know, it must be a masterpiece."
Even still there is no value placed on thoughtful speech or honesty of character
both of which are also practically extinct
But somehow, I walk around feeling like the Dodo...

stagnant,
black,
and hallow

I have yet to know how it always comes to this
perhaps, I dare to ask the question:

When our bravodo wears thin and our cancer spreads,
the chase is infinite and the power treads,
somewhere further from our hands, of what is it are we left?

Oh, two eyes to see that ugliness is a direct result of our vanity, ten fingers to count the trivial things we place on priority like staying composed so we never know yeah, can hardly tell how much we are like compost rotting in the dirt alone...