Out of Many, None

The dregs.  The chaff.  The mirthless laugh.  Adrift in an imagined raft.

To see them is to curse your eyes, and ye shall know them by their craft.


They hurl, they spew; they mar the view.  Within their thoughts is not a clue.

A child without a parent, these; they think there’s naught they cannot do.


The deaf.  The blind.  The sickened mind.  There’s nothing sacred they won’t find.

Immune to scorn, rebuke, and threat; the last thing they will be is kind.


A pain, a bore, an endless chore, to wade into their filth once more.

To search for gems within a bog as vast as sand upon the shore.


What point?  What end?  They will not mend; they seldom break, and never bend.

All life’s a game to such as these that have no life they could defend.


Forget?  Forgive?  Let live and let live?  Disperse them with a timely shiv?

Do any dodge the pointlessness of catching water in a sieve?


Stand up.  Arise.  Turn up your eyes, and hear the anthem’s old reprise.

Believe in goodness, truth, and love, and set your sights for clearer skies.


The fools and foes, ignore those woes, for you have seen where that road goes.

They cannot harm a stronger soul whose body works and whose mind knows.


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