The Workings Of The World Poem by M. A Heathcote

The world will inflict its pain upon you.
And devour your innocence.
It will corrupt the purity of an untouched fruit.
And cut out your protesting tongue.
And soil your soul till you don't-
Know your name or where you now truly belong.
The workings of the world are inherently evil.
And yet it is a temptress of magical beauty.
Tonight, again, the gallows call.
But I am too weak to take that final fall, that plunge.
I entertain life under a living spell of death.

And guilt with an eternal frail hope
I am a locust lost from the plague.
Driven to distraction, ravenous to devour the wind
The dust takes pleasure in everything it encounters
Along its path, a desert flower
And all its bursting banks of lust.
I am that fat, engorged caterpillar.
The one that longs for wings, if only to experience
Real love for a single day, an uncorrupted hour.
Subservient as a moth
Adoring a candle flame about to expire.