Ways Of The World

Shadow black blood floods flow silently wailing in whirlpools Volcanoes of endless enmity erupt with vengeance. It's not humanness. Here, the mores of 'might is right' rules Against routing quagmires, lotus buds fight for transcendence. We shake hands like friends while minds float on clouds of fraudulence. Amidst rocking crowds in digital sounds, we feel alone. Wearing torn costumes of cleaved conscience, we seek vigilance. Weeds of weariness spring up, wherefrom seeds of smiles are sown. Like weak rams, we follow the rushing crowds to hit someone. Who do we want to hit? Why do we want to? No one knows. We make weapons and enable our young ones fight for fun. Roots of truth hidden, falsehood from friendship flawlessly flows. Why is each one who toils not the owner of their wages? Why don't we end all dead ends that prevent our pilgrimages?