The arrogant soul sings its tune of sorrow,
forgetful of what it had sown for tomorrow,
with the withering of the spring,
the once upon a fling,
finds its misery in wishes forgone,
paints a reality in gray strokes,
yet sees the world as a colorful hoax,
deceiving itself, as a hen to a fox,
to wallow in its haughtiness,
but hubris, a fortress where we hide,
weakened foundations that give birth to pride,
a vicious cycle that cleaves us apart,
and gives birth to its heinous child,
greed, a once innocent seed,
planted in place of a need,
and morphed into endless lore,
of crimes, grimes, and a painful sore,
upon which our history has sprouted.
Like turtles, we all move around,
cowering in our homes,
terrified of a reality that has no remorse.
In our silence, we find ourselves distraught,
sinking in all we had wished to forgo,
of love, love, love, and movement,
before we gave it to God alone,
and lost faith in humanity for its chores,
to eradicate, confiscate and build roads,
upon a once-living home,
replaced by a lust for arrogance's kin,
to judge what it deems apart,
and crave its part to fight,
in a purgatory, where colors, not so bright,
shine deafness on its blabbering mind,
as it heightens itself in illusions of its climb,
out of its delusions in solitude it surmises.
