The Walking Led
We can stride ahead to belong,
sever ties in weak made strong.
But how can we, in conscience go
before the things we truly know.
Only with our foresight clear
are any reasons not to fear;
yet hanging on in morbid dread,
of these outcomes we are fed
hatred of our own desires
under which we stoke a fire
full of pleadings to be felt.
In our dealings we get dealt.
When and how will all this end,
where did go ourselves as friends
to each other, to this earth,
our full sentience and our mirth.
I can't find nor furthur seek
us in kind within our meek.
We are seperate, so will be
anything we hope to see.
From divine, divisive creeds
echo chants where our steps lead
in chaos and futility we
lay waste our mind's virility.
Freedom, an idea to slowly die
as servitude weaves a web of lies.
Leaden steps won't trick our minds
nor to ill fate lead us half-blind.
Limping along we slowly go
distinguishing not our fast from slow.
We get led as so we aspire
to reach some platitudes lit afire.
How can we not follow them
when we are surrounded by them
whom is neither dead nor still alive;
to walk as a herd is to die inside.