Mortal Trophies

Pete, the bird, found himself a haven on my step.
Reaching one hopeful wing, his only wing
the other, limp, perhaps from anothers bite;
he lost his power to propel.

I could not offer him a solution,
create anew fluttering flap to secure his
bird identity, powerless
I watched him give up, his exhausted solo wing
could not suffice.

Why do you give us a life, your life
in a place that won't let us thrive?
You offer us a world ready to attack us,
beat us, into helpless creatures, like Pete.
Then you wonder why we don't sacrifice
when you've already sacrificed us to ourselves.

There is only so much we can do here,
so much we can pray for, we can write about
what more, can we do?
as your mortal trophies,
what less?