The Ball and Chain of Cult-ure

Do I subsist on a cult of death?

I walk on a path of felled timber

My feet covered in hide

I sip on the sweat of the oppressed

And gorge on the transmutation of grass to flesh

My hands scream guilt with the plastic residue

That drips from every device and button

And greases across every screen

Mixed fibers turn blue as they flake off my garments with the wings of moths

These dangling accessories sparkle from gaia's cavities

As my teeth are whitened by mountain's decay

Such a costly mortgage is the modern life