on which we all

images of a likeness
that is proclaimed to be divine
commit and commit
and never quit to terrify

that which is sublime
in each of us all
that spark, that fire
that gives us love, hope, compassion,
that goodwill so desired,
and everything that makes us kind

stamped out with jacked boots of blindness
and hands writing, mouths speaking madness
watering the weeds of what lets
Darkness grow to Night.

And now, once more,
young dreams of joy and happiness
are turned to dust and ashes
lowered low into empty earth
on which we all stand on.

And the cry is loud
amongst us all and deep inside
everything that makes us love, hope
compassionate and kind,
for we know, we know
that this madness is not us
nor any other
this is not that image nor that likeness
of that which is divine.

This madness is not mankind.