All they do is take until there is nothing left,
walking by like hallow vessels.
A corpse left on the ground,
so grey, no more color is left in the tongue,
No remorse, no recognition,
just empty gestures.
Such a corpse is kind,
There’s is no shirt on its back,
but there is a child that is now warm,
But the “hobo” you’ve called that man,
Is the hero of a certain child.
The grey of life,
The led on the eyes of many
Sketch a picture of ignorance,
But humble thy heart,
Because your mind is fornicating lies.
And your tongue,
--submitted by C. Bennett