The world is broken, and we are to blame.

This is my first attempt at poetry. I don't tend to find myself turning to poetry as an outlet, but given the recent events, I have felt the need to express myself in a written form, and poetry has proven in this occasion to be the best mode in which I have been able to make even the smallest of sense of my incoherent thoughts. 

The world is broken,

the pieces of its fragile corpse shattered into minuscule sediments.

The world is broken,

but you and I- we already knew this.

An eye for an eye makes the whole world blind,

they say,

but who is listening?

The world is broken.

The ruins of destruction

mingles with the fertile soil

and the freshly spilt blood,

tepid, the pulse still visible.

The world is broken,

but you and I- we already knew this.

The ashes give way to the birth of more hatred,

fostering an ecosystem,

for more animosity, more blood, more division,

more destruction of humanity.

The reduction of man, until we are nothing,

an empty shell of human, we shall become the void that we created,

sans emotion, sans mortality, sans everything. 
Nihil. 

The world is broken,

I hear them say,

but who is to blame?
And each man turns to his neighbour,
refusing to admit any blame on his own behalf

And I repeat to myself,
Yes, we are to blame.