Mouths Poem by Butch Decatoria

This Experience
An imperfect reflection
Garden of pavements

Broken purposeless
Flightless birds will all look up
Feeling more of sky

Yearning phantom limbs
That Substance of unfeeling
Holes want to be filled.

The freedoms championed
By the long gone days of Old
Had good intentions

Experience still
Makes business of great divides
Caters to the Wolf

We're the hand which feeds
Mouths eating away the world.
We get what we give.