I'm waiting on an island of virtue,
in the middle of the sea of despair,
beholden to the light which shines through to me,
and only me.

Waiting for callow men to erupt,
in there calamity.
The darks smell of hatred lingers above me,
A stigmata of the mind.
Can we not see the desolate bodies of children.
Lacking the eloquence they should,
waiting for others to embody them
with there personality.
A personality created from deceit.

Can you make the endeavor for change?
To deviate from this path of self-destruction,
Inherently I think not.

We are to busy toying with ethics,
evolving but not changing,
conforming but never developing,
beseeching for, but never doing.

If self-destruction occurs,
It will be by our own hand,
We abdicate things we shouldn't,
the bitter taste of death tastes sweet,
to those who are the aggressors.
We shall wait for our inhalation
with felicity, and open arms,
Unknowingly.

As I sleep I fall into a desolate dream,
darkness knows know man as friend.
Yet we live with darkness side by side,
as one.
Unified with what we don't want,
parallel to what we do.