What plagues us is,
Seems to me
Holding in-animates to blame
For Animates failed dreams

I think, then it’s sure to be–
What fires the gun comes from ego’s disease
A finger for, frustrations chore
A thumb to help, angers pressures melt
An eye to see, lost and hopeless dreams
Despair is held with what’s left on an assassin’s quivering hand

Until the space of youths troubled grace,
Is farmed anew with valuable views
And given tools to live in peace
Without running in, the crazy race
All is lost I fear and,
And lost is all!

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