So little.
So tough.
So made for Times
of “Not enough”.
While gold blossoms behind golden gates.
And silver spoons rule silver fates.
No bridge.
No thread.
No Man lives by what
he has said.
Now, worlds spin to different tunes;
some, amidst gun powder fumes.
Too stubborn.
Too fragile.
Too much have we slept
all this while.
In this Fog, not a few will die,
killed by the tongues of those who lie.
Take care.
Take all.
Take your brother’s
winter shawl.
As you fill your coffers corrupted and deep,
and his family shudders hard and weeps.
Stand up.
Stand down.
Stand for the people
or stand for the crown.
Legs heavy with unused courage
inspire naught but further carnage.
So much.
So scarce.
So far we have come
in our fancy cars.
So distant yet Man is from his Best.
With each mile forth, he becomes a little less.