a poem by Michael Sherrillo
How is it, we precious few
Wander on this weary world.
We once though found,
But now know we're lost.
As our own slaves, we labor,
While the world around us fades.
The worlds turning, slowing down.
And ever longer the night does stay.
Tiered heads low stare at the ground,
While uninspired feet grind away.
As we dragging, are weighed down
Shackled all by invisible chains