When can we come to ourselves?

Where we will queue for our needs like civilized creeds
When can we see ourselves?
Where we will voice out to the shrill airs
Our daily frustrations and without a pester of grains into our shabby eyes

When shall we understand ourselves?
Where we will value the cost of innocent lives we coldly seize along the path
And we, we still remain affixed to seeing the oozing blood aligning both of us.

Folks with our senses have derailed in the thin airs
Yes, vanished but not to their will
And the folks without our senses remain mute over their own blindfolded actions.

The path, our path
Is still a route, we can’t fully comprehend
Our path, the path is still an arena we can’t folly
For our path to live a life are always streamlined to a more brutal path

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