Turmoil and toil, the daily quota grinds
In an endless dust bowl of existence,
Where the mean path walked so bitterly winds
Through baleful vagaries of evil chance.
Confusion contends, whilst from every side
Answers and lies seem to hold equal weight:
The worse – acclaimed for being wise -
Decide from towers of power their betters’ fate.
Despair now rules this melancholic plane;
Few choose to paint the sun or sit by trees:
We award wealth and praise to the insane,
Ignoring whispered truths upon the breeze.
And yet our hearts ring true with purity,
And listening to them will set us free.
May 2009
I might have been in a bit of a dark mood when I wrote this … 
