Whatever you want

The cycle contains
but doesn't start with
the beast, coated in matte labor.
It sputters and spits, spewing
its rancid breath towards the sky.
The clouds are stained an industrious dark/silver,
and they whimper.
Tears of dust-water and smog fall from heaven
and land in the mouths of the rich and poor;
acidic rivulets singe their way
down Her throat.
Foulness is spilled in the puddles
that children are allowed to play in,
but what the people really care about
is peeled like a dried syrup
off the surface of their drinking water
and is processed, bubbled and churned
until it turns into
the most valuable thing,
a dangerous thing.
They sacrifice this stuff to their beasts,
willingly poisoning their next gasp.

The cycle lurches onward.
Into the smoke it wheels,
creaking along
into forever
and into nothing.