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Craven crowds of plastic people, two tongued,
chained to rocks, boxed in coffins,
Thundering overhead, rumbling underground,
Red Man forgotten, dead men from their graves,
The incomprehensible, acceptable, ignoring salvation that might save.
The horse once lore, now a object of obession,
Dispraising the victory of success, forgetful that more
is less, a lesson.
Educated men drifting among glasses,
While coffins float from the doors of packed cathedrals.
In the thin veil of honesty and lavender haze,
Passing seasons of the countless brave.
Blessings of the fruits of the vine over barren land,
Feed the flesh, while countless souls ignore the man.
While the clock runs down, timelss and still,
Days turn to nights, and nights turn to years.
Are birth and death the easy hours?
Shall we struggle from our too-warm beds to nurture the
flower?
Is mediocrity our our endless search, or comfortable perch?
Distant time once bathed in tenderness,while the masses
debate over evils.
Endless sights seen, often unspoken,
The rose of our life,transformed but to a token.
Misty eyed in the comfort of our homes,
Unreckoned heavy hearts content, ignoring the wrong.
Is it to late...to rise, and awake?
Or simply be content with desire,
To welcome our fate.
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