The truth is boring… is it not

What fires, the mind of man incurs,
scheming such an unworthy writ.
Can evil so temper the imagination,
be given over to an uncaring wit.

Crying from high, sounds saintly,
actions are strewn as devilish cur.
Inside can burn an insipid hatred,
control is as always solid, with Sir.

I carry not the burden of genius,
this I forgo for a sense of being.
Feel their blades plunge the back,
turn, look, see cowards fleeing.

A Dove fly’s circles, round our planet.
but finds nowhere that peace can perch.
A powerful true heart inside beats,
needing rest, but continues to search.

If the Vulture brought peace,
would it be the new Dove?
Or if snakes cured our ills,
could they at last know love?

Man snorts then calls a Pig Greedy,
on a planet where some are still needy.
This world is fashioned to suit,
our sack cloth lives.

poverty is the exhaust fumes, left by wealth…