Right

A sky of patchwork, in black and white.
The winds coarse blow to console the violent night.
How still and unbecoming nature becomes with light.
What more could it be?
It lacks the right.

The masses like parasites, akin to leeches,
Suck the blood from the frail trees and,
Then chop them down.
If only to aid the further defamation of our still quiet now.

This alleged progress makes the boiling sky cry,
and the icebergs we've unfortunately melted, ended their life,
To sustain a cheap and over-privileged existence full of strife.
Though what more could any one thing be?
When they were never given the right.