With phony grin we play a story, a story of our own making,
Where remorse is not for what of purer lost for petty takings.
Copious wealth that cleaves to lust, outweighs moral qualm
Bleeds dry the democracy and liberates pandemonium.
Donning a masquerade of profane ritual, every child of sun,
Chalked people under grey sky – reprobates mulishly run,
Belittled in the passing days like a rock in a savage sea
Where human soul is put a price against and death- a priced legacy.
Where history is attainted but for, the future of a few,
And the few snowballs to a throng as blackened souls accrue.
Where children of tomorrow give their hands, to a merry dance,
To promise of their pipe dream – the promise of a chance.
Soon when the curtains rise and reality smiles a wretched one,
Lost are convictions and wilts the dream that was once spun,
The world upholds its customary wall as a heart is closed,
And to this quite catastrophe many a soul is lost.
Along the precipice of fear, treading naked in distress,
A wistful face with forlorn eyes, a voice aggresses.
But a hundred such voices die, unheard of, in the undertow,
Washed into the deepest trench by the tempestuous societal flow.
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