Wayfarer

They laud change,

but as it stirs,

call it strange,

like cockleburs,

thorns of flesh,

that travel seas,

they detest,

this death disease,

compassion dies,

and terms are turned,

scent of flies,

freedom spurned,

if not for us,

we’d be no more,

and lacking trust,

a colder spore,

days are dawning,

times will come,

and while they’re yawning,

count the sum,

for if you cannot,

show them kindness,

will He ever blot,

your blindness?

open hearts,

and close your eyes,

all are parts,

please realize.

 

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