WRITE THE WORLD REVIEW ARCHIVE

Green are the strands of the winner's laurel;
green is the step of his podium as he stares over the crowd;
green are the eyes that narrow with cunning, mirroring the
green heart that beats and forgets that it is mortal—

green is the money that makes the world go round;
green are the stained tongues that lap at the feet of those
green, grinning, in designer suits and rosy cheeks, flooding
green pastures so that the bones of those below are drowned and

green is where I want you to stop.
Green is where I want you to look below the surface and see the corpses of those who came before and those who will follow. Do you want your throne built on nothing but smoke and grief? And not any old smoke, oh no, the smoke that corrupts and crawls and climbs and cries and sits and slimbers and wriggles and writhes and claws and snarls and bites and licks and takes your life from your fingertips and this is where I want you to see that we should live in harmony with the wind and the rain and the treetops too—

green is where we made our home,
green is where we are cradled in the earth,
green are the tears that the flowers cry,
green is the colour that always makes me think “why?”