Stand upon the hills,
Those who own their souls,
And cry to the night as one,
To purge this poisoned air.
Fire! They shout,
Out bloody mouths,
Frothing with the taste of anarchy.
They indulge their eager feet,
Forever drowning in turning sand,
Blissful as long as the endless sea
Remains on the horizon.
An angry world tips the scales,
To loose the furled and knotted minds,
That otherwise would climb the ladders,
Step by step
Content with time.
Compassion, love, honor,
All silently secretly slaughtered,
Apathy, unbridled passion
Wield the scythe;
The swing never whispers
Rhyme or reason.
Pattern the fields with purposed bodies,
Leave behind the selfishness of mine,
March to an even drum;
The heartbeat of possibility.
Let these burdened minds know victory ,
And find peace on distant hopeful shores,
Weary legs wrung with the effort
Of running for so long against the current.
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