Scavenger

In recent times,
I seem to find,
That a magic 8-ball makes the calls.
Moving mountains – climbing heights.
By digging deep trenches – and even deeper holes.

It’s sad to see that…
People cry whilst iron falls.
End of empires – split!
Like Russian dolls.

It’s fun when they realise,
You can make diamonds from coal.
But not the other way around.

It’s tragic when they realise,
Like when a kookaburra tries to laugh,
But struggles to make a sound.

And when their heart pounds in two-step.
When they’re tied up in loose ends.
When everyone wants their two cents.

I’ll rummage through their lost and found.

I’ll pick up the pieces.
On this flat plateau.
Alone, as the true sole survivor.
On this rugged, Battleground.