Battlefield (Misnomer)

Of the living things around us, green,
algae, lichen, dreams: in the end
they all become us, they all become
coal. Bituminous despoils deep
underground, waiting to become
booty, the soiled trout of some
pirates quest for mid-Earth medicine.

Hello Sirs, they'll say, we've got us
some fuel here, Burn 'em up!

Coal deposits, you know.

Stuff what's left into a stocking,
over years it will become old.
And over the years it'll become
collectible, like a trashcan in Paris
imagine how many things have been
there; imagine you are your own helicopter
parent; i am hovering; waiting around;
wondering what books
will be able to describe us.
Someday you'll see, I'm no cannibal.
I just eat the hearts of children
and tell the Government about how best to do it
so as to not spoil anybody else's fun.

I guess it's pretty obvious this is a little dark
for Christmas. But then again sometimes the
mariner's rime doesn't match itself; it doesn't
understand where or when to place dublooms;
i have many friends at sea but few who have
seen the light shining at the end of the world
where pirates sink to the bottom and the whole
world doesn't seem to mind.