Exodus - 2012/07/24

Weavers of wonder
Wielding looms of lore
Tell tales of centuries
Leave us wanting for more

They have departed
Final flock long gone
We are left with pushers
Selling a shortening con

Our sun rises not
Bequeathed to the rich
Monsters which strangle
Each and every new snitch

Eyes grow accustomed
To permanent twilight
Fingers on the triggers
Not knowing who to fight

Discordant voices fester
Fueled by emotional rise
Brought on by those safe
From reaping of their lies

I neither hear nor see
Though it smells rotten
Why is knowledge gained
So very easily forgotten

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