the eye in the sky that has patiently watched humanity, waiting for the day it would fall,
you would think a species wanting to supplant another would use violence; that they would dig their claws into the Earth and tear out the roots
What are the ethics of removing violence from the universe? is pacifism worth the possible harm?
there is no blood on its claws for the eye in the sky's supposed kind heart, and there will never be;
little attempts to sway humanity in their favor, towards the great big drop that will extinguish it peacefully; chitinous hands gently closing the eyes of its still-warm body
they want the Earth and all it has, they want to extinguish the abhorrent aggression of the human race, but they have the time...
in their singular purpose, their near-endless prison, stagnating through years and years of human development, it stares down the barrel of a meaningless existence
the eye in the sky doesn't tear at the root, it seeps poison into the ground, a more merciful end, if it strokes the leaves as they wilt
it is bigger than any insect, but sees itself in them as they curl up, through the eyes of those disgusting creatures
it sees them fight and kill and desecrate, it watches them love and smile and create, it sees as they cry and crawl and beg
for the millions of violent deaths, the carelessness of people sitting on heaps of cogs in the killing machine, for all the blood they shed and things they destroy
how hard is it to love something intent on eating itself? when you stroke the leaves and still feel the sun's warmth between the divots, fleeting and soon forever gone
the eye in the sky is a machine full of cogs, hamsters running in wheels, monkeys on typewriters; parallel to a world right below them
the humans, obsessed with capital, the eyes, obsessed with what they see; and it asks its bodies-
-if they are cogs, aren't we cogs in a machine too?
and the bodies say, is there anything so beautiful as a machine well-run-?
the people spirited away, that humanity did not miss, objects of their affection with things still skittering inside
it loops around to the insect, envisions its claw under its small body
ground up in the machine, curled up on its back, like the shape of the Earth itself
the eye in the sky, that never blinks, never sheds a tear,
inside are a million more,
and a fraction yearns for the horrors of the world, to be a small mindless thing, to run in the underbrush of Earth and see the humans love and cry and crawl
to live those two years and look up at the eyeless sky
instead, claws intertwined with fingers gone cold, it stares towards the green plastic terrarium, and hopes not to see a reflection
but there is nothing the eye in the sky cannot see,
there is no way out of it, no way out of the machine
the bug leaves, but the eye remains,
claws shutting those frigid eyelids
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