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All around, it’s vague and distant.
Sounds are muffled and confused,
As if being suffocated, by clouds of water.
Standing alone in a head storm of thoughts.
Visions and words flashing my minds eye,
Memories and dreams, predictions and accusations.
Alone, finding away through.
Sense, grabs each thought,
Clarity becomes itself.
All around decay begins,
Creeping, life sapping on it’s touch.
The black hand of death makes it’s mark.
A creation of man distorted and abused,
The hand of death, slow, but sure.
Decay, famine, death and war,
Are creations of it’s wake.
The production of man,
The progression of mankind.
All we leave behind will cease to exist,
Can you feel the damage done?
Can you see the damage done?
History tells the tale, we just have to look, UNDERSTAND!
Can’t we do anything but progress and become just that?
Only we, together, as one, can make the change that counts.
© Byron McAlpine
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