stolen

piranhas swarm, but that is not my world,
wolves run in packs, or uniforms or no;
we’ve seen the ugliness up close, the pain
of enmity that feeds upon itself,
as confirmation bias, or its kin,
enables us to replicate the past,
convinced none have the answers, save for us.

the stolen peace, a legacy of how
we conquer with our tools, then wake to find
our tools now own us; misery ensues,
as discontent without a seeming source
turns us to anger almost every day.

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