A small table-top bowl perhaps

Filled with collection of creatures

Owned by the SUPERIOR who just watches

As inferior turn on minors

In a bowl filled with life and death

Beauty and gore, rest and sweat

We the pets, prey on the weakest

Maybe, HE switches on an overhead lamp

And turns it off when HE goes to work

As he never sleeps nor slumber

Day to day we say as we celebrate murder rates

Once beautiful, now a place where mothers wail

HE waters this bowl to cool off the world’s rage

The troubles caused, turbulence and battles

We drift near the edge of the table

As we pay our wages for wars waged

So close to rolling off the platform

Be shattered to dust, our basic form

At the end, HE chooses the ones

Who acted like they were being watched but

HE’s waiting for those yet to realize how it works

It’s just one big bowl you’ll discover

If you just looked up into the night sky

And see it as a ceiling far off the bowl on the table

With the night bulb hanging off the ceiling

This bowl could be convenient for you and I if we could

Revolve around the bowl and appreciate the times spent in it