Man has not grown much in a thousand years;
The same old insecurities and strife,
A tale of struggle, glory, smiles and tears
All cast together and with chaos rife;
Each generation reaching to grasp change
Where egos urge advancement on before;
Though gestures, clothes and styles or means may range,
The jealous heart adheres to creeds forsworn.
While constructs of the mind are quick to burn,
And what was right now shadow cast as wrong,
The edicts of the soul are slow to turn
And evil soon drops civil cloaks he’s donned.
Thus what was progress seems decline renamed,
And love and hate stand but as words exchanged.
© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.