Death of Morale

Death of Morale True, I do practice the act of introversion quite a bit, But why should I be blamed? To what am I to admit When I am not the transgressor in question? I am not typically one to act in aggression, Towards others in outward ways, I should say, For, only in privacy, do I sometimes get irate, Never to those who desire to brighten my day But rather to those who nourish from the hate, For such creatures, as it pains me to claim, Seem only to grow, to fester in number by the hour, Corrupting the pure, convincing them they are the same, That despite the effort, all people are equally as sour. You may call me cynical, but even still, Do be confident that I do not speak in vain Since it is not by my own design or will That some tend to thrive from others’ pain, Nor that, sometimes, the weakest among the populace, Often those who are primarily afflicted, Are given no respite, no chance at joyfulness And consequently cause more pain, their sorrows reflected. An unfortunate truth, just as this may be, It is not its existence which vexes me so But rather how it perseveres, us acting carefree, Acting in ignorance, feeding the spiteful weeds we sow. And so he was right, Voltaire was, when once he said That those who believe blindly inevitably regress, And commit atrocities, not caring who ends up dead, Pinning the blame on others, if only to digress. Is this what it’s come to? Rashness without rationale? No, I fear it is far worse, for it is the Death of Morale.