Bleak

Polluted by the influx
Of mind-destroying drugs,
Plagued by wars in which our children
Masquerade like angry bugs,
The world is decaying -
Its fabric torn by time and dust
Stirred up before the death machines
Whose spinning wheels never rust.

Drenched in the stench of ignorance,
It's a wonder if we last the week;
Ripped to shreds by mankind's molars
The future's not much more than bleak -
So,
Why walk the road of selfishness—
Paved by bloody evil deeds—
When every print we leave behind
Is just one more hole in which to plant the seeds
Of emptiness?
The brainchildren of death?
Just one more void to swallow up the meaning
Of each breath?
So sleeps the final question,
Posed by those who choose to think:
Do you suppose the end of us
Will justify our means?

So long as worst today
Becomes the standard of tomorrow,
This rancid, pestilential fog
Will always find a way to follow;
I'm still unsure of what's unclear
But just in case you missed it all:
There's very little hope or none
That gravity will break our fall...

So sleeps the final question,
Posed by those who choose to think:
What happens if our end ends up just justified by our means?