The Morass

 

As blinkered mules they chew the cud of life

neither hearing the wind or the cries of others about

Single minded, encased and enclosed

they stumble and roam with heavy muffled hooves

 

Their sphere is not to share or appreciate

they could be eternally cast off

and be unaware of their travesty or fall

we behold them but they see us not

 

Gratification with an embrace made in haste

then a search for solace or temporary escape

Time is not kept or adhered to as routine

is their only appetite for survival

 

Uncultured and rudderless they have no compass

or a grain of motivation to drive forward their

unwieldy carcasses, seeing not the

sun, moon or stars or treading upon a different terrain

 

Wild packs with tribal longings of associatiions

loosely hold them in some bond of mutual mockery

Fodder they are and fodder they eat

with little else left in store