Mowing Grass

A after a long spell of interminable prose now we have worse- verse.(Heh heh, I couldn't resist).

Iron Blades flatten
Life
Into rows of unrelieved
Flatness.
The Fruits of a struggle:
Of weeks, of months,
Of Eternities-
Cut down in an act
Of Brutal Order.

The scent of fresh, green
Blood
Wafted in the golden morning breeze.
Over the roar of the barbaric beast,
Came the cry of dying dreams;
Answered by hollow echoes
As life was sliced,
Ripped,torn-
Ground into a dull,briny mash.

The Others watch unmoved.
Doing nothing to stop the ruin.
"This must done."
"Order must be maintained"
What does it matter,
If all is Crushed and Killed.

The heartless blades continue
To rip and chew and spit out
Verdant carcasses
With burping satisfaction.
The soft tender stalks
Buckle and snap
Under the weight
Of cold oppression-
The beacon of Order.

Now all that remains
Is a field of flat sameness
Of broken spirits,
Lost ideals,squashed creativity...
Congratulations!
Order has been achieved!
The cost?
Only a few lives,
A few hopes
A few dreams...
The Greater Good has been achieved!
And after all,
Don't we all serve order?