Hopes go dead, despairing head,
A mind tries to sleep it off.
The time seems long, for those forlorn,
The winner on the waylaid scoff.
The grass green where it can't be seen,
The walled gardens of pride.
The city lives like a hive, but not alive,
Its soul is rotten inside.
The earth is big, needs very small,
Smaller still the mind of man.
Every creature inherits a place, but,
We get a feudal or property plan.
I have now nothing, except the sky,
And I think it might rain.
The few books and clothes,
Will get wet, but I can't lose nor gain.
It's the way things are now,
The tyranny of the few with force.
Money or muscle or morbid theory,
Repetition they scream till hoarse.
The decent or quiet are driven out,
Like the unwanted they're gone.
The rituals of religious rote dote,
On the made up villains they spawn.
It will be night, a storm if it might,
Will make a tree temporary too.
The fences are everywhere and barbed,
Selfish and cruel what is true.
That's where we stand, you understand,
Many here, the educated with plans.
We've done what we can, we're bright,
Yet, ruled by thugs, goons and clans.
An apple with a pit, poison kit,
This now not a problem for me.
Garden of eden in the city of joy,
Just a middle sort of revelry.
The tree is bare this time of year,
I have no plans or any place to go.
I shall see, if this road from me,
Will have a morning tomorrow.
