EATERS OF DUST

Earlier like a bird
I rose up from my nest
This morning
Just like decades ago, yesterday, so be today,
but tomorrow,
Perhaps, might changed.

Don't bother lighting the candle
We're the eaters of dust you used to know
Our life is the pairs of tattered jeans,
Smoked engines, dumped outputs
From the outlaw's land

Tour around our streets
Our road is the back of the tortoise
Said to have fallen and crashed from the towering sky
In the aged book of fiction
Where ambush lies every peaceful second.

Do I need to tell 
Who the healthy ones are?
Since fresh blood runs in their vein
A bank of refined H2O in their bugging pot bellies
But cholera rumbles our own tummy.

Since the world is made of streets and oceans
The butterflies among us 
Do fly to other streets
The swimmers crawl through the oceans
Where the healthy ones live
To pluck fruit of poisons
How here, at home
The foods we eat
Are their leftovers,
The books we read
Are their history
Even the air we breath
Is the smoke from their engines

But merrily we sing
"The fairly-used last"
This is annoying!
When our brains isn't of a bug
Our forefathers no more live
The old ones are close to the grave
So old things are
Supposed to be dumped.

Why then microwaved
And cargoed to our table
If we truly aren't the eaters of dust?