It sits, it molds
Inactive
Stale
Stagnate
Decaying the very soul of man
Layering the psyche with hopelessness
Oh the stench of despair!
Who will cure the spoilage?
And the lineage is contaminated
My father dreamed, they say
I dream, they say
And they sit and sit and gawk
As if it were not conceived by them
Degenerative
They march sans mission
They arise without aim
Oh the vastness of the rubble!
Who will rebuild the ruins?
And the maggots will come
Delectable, they say
Thank you they say
Feasting on our rottenness
Loving our forgottonness
Praying our incessant waywardness
Oh the crucifixion of dreams!
Who will resurrect the casualties?
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