Mankind is sick,
Addled by a toxic fog,
A primal miasma,
Colourless and odourless,
But insidious all the same,
It permeates not only into our skin,
But our humours also,
Reducing us to beasts,

We scratch at one another over trifles,
Imagined slights and bruised egos,
Chimpanzee disputes and jealousy,
A red mist owning our minds,
And though harmony is our ideal,
Our intent,
We show such aptitude for rage,
Such illness.

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