The thinkers sit thinking, either huddled,
but usually alone.
Haunted by atrocities of the past horrors,
they couldn't control much less, bring to
a grinding halt.
In my time, I've seen people driven into
the abyss of madness.
In my time, I've borne witness to ignorance
Another year older, more contemplative,
The reset button cannot be pressed, but if
What is this life all about? Money, corruption,
power, greed, famine, death?
The lunatics sit in their multitudes, plotting
vengeance, through the bloodshed that the
end of times shall bring.
Young people shall fall early into their graves,
like a tidy little bed, blood quenching the rabid
thirst of those seated exalted, high upon that
The young shall die today, heroes the old upon
the hill shall grow older, more bloodthirsty,
The old shall grow senile and be pardoned by
the next in line.
The old shall be sent out to luxury retirement
pastures, in which they shall graze on the red,
red, grass of home.
Crimson hue, stained with the blood of young
While the young that have prematurely perished,
heroes shall still be dead.
While acid rain pummels their graves, chiseling
away at the memories of them.
While their mothers cry and their fathers drape
their nation's flag, over their offspring's tombstones.