good grief, what is this? poetry?

Hair and wine, happy in le sublime.
Waste and water, mix in uniform shapes
to be greedied into the mouths of the ignorant gluttons.
Gross and detestable hunger, pumping forth brutality
and the gnashing of teeth.
Flies dining and children dying. Or the reverse, more likely.
One happens, thus the other happens.
Things fall in succession, and last of all are the flies. Idiots
with no brains,
who live to carry on the race,
and who die in an irritating buzz; catapult to the earth.
Life given to another generation.
A mother’s spirit passed onto an unknowing child, a happy heart torn by darkness;
a baby’s wail forgotten in blind pain.
A museum of lives, wrenched from the fingers of the owners.
A cemetery of sorrow, the hospital, the jail, the jungle, the novel. With all that is broken,
yet the light is warm,
and the cold is overshadowed by cliffs
of overarching hope.
And the point is this, that pain and happiness are one,
but flipped, like a coin,
by the circumstantial evidence.
And whether the light is orange or blue, exertions and emotions are fingered and felt,
like the wind and the storm.
From body bags comes life.
Thus, thus, the end all.