The future is a dream, poorly shapen, miserably formed
The future is a dream, a dream that died before it was born
The future - that wondrous horizon of which we so often speak
Is a motley-painted graveyard with open, inviting graves
The future is the forest, now aflame
Raging and razing like Californian wildfires
We choke on the smoke in silence
And when fire is tamed we will simply bury the remains
The future is our children
And here we sit, selling their hopes to buy ruinous ends
To summon misery, and pain, unwarranted deaths
All in their interest, we say
As we burn the hopes, the dreams
The future, today.
©thechosenpessimist
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