Imagination

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I watch the bubbles rise
and fall down the sides of the pink landscape,
as the flow slowly engulfs the life sheltered below.
Tiny soldiers run in terror, fleeing nature's wrath,
wrought and tempered from their world's violence.
How terrible were they in their quest for Greed's own end,
suffering not an innocent to continue living that way.
Murder, their commander in chief, swayed all their decisions,
so like the Divine, I am sent.
Behold, the Angel of Wrath,
sent to tend a flock of miscreants and vandals.
They never realize that this destruction is preordained,
Punishment intended to wipe away their history.
I still hear their screams when I dream,
and I wonder how it could have been different
had we all chosen a different way.
But when it all boils down,
I am just a child pretending to be God.
And I'm out of baking soda.

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