Cracked skin on wringing hands like crooked lines etched into the fabric of time

Reminiscing of days past when hope was but a song, carried by the voices of those imbued by life’s love

Heads bowed in shame now, averse to the gaze of what we’ve become

Too entangled in the dilapidated ruins on humanity’s home

Built upon, a monument to honor the promise of potential

All hands toiled and tolled, both young and old

Both weak hearted and brave

Gone is the distinction that emboldens the cracks that split across jagged surfaces, deepening rotten wounds, rancid and oozing to their core

The dream of goodness wiped away like a speck on the clear vision of hate