Thursday, 15 January 2015

Why the conflict?

As the wasted in Paris waste the press,
Virginia steeps into vile recess.
The cesspit of minds these thoughts caress
Expand where once upon a time
It seemed though broken heads would fly
To far off lands from whence they came.
But back they come and fighting fierce,
Though never fair and ever near,
Each time the world descends under stress
The bastards turn on ones deemed less.

Conflict, it seems, is a crass necessity
Perpetuated by frustrated souls
In a world where many care but the cold remain
To keep the old order and minds the same.

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