Our self-importance know-no-bounds,
Holding on to the wrong sense of superiority
We place ourselves on that imaginary throne
Build on the bones of countless we devour
Which began with fear of being consumed
but later for reasons as simple as a sport.

How content are we placing ourselves in such a spot
Steer clear of everything that was an eyesore
Disturbing our calm and peaceful lives
And damaging our pretty rose gardens?
How content are we standing in this throne room,
Smeared in the blood of innocent...