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By Chris Wood
Sitting one evening on a cold December eve,
My mind lost and creeping with fantastic disease.
“Oh how false it all seems,” I called to the night.
“God, do I believe?” I questioned with fright.
Funny and trivial, is it all that we do?
Spreading calloused cruelty, seems so far from you.
Polishing our beliefs, for they have not a spot.
But stone the others, for they believe what we’ve not.
Turn a cold shoulder with a chip taken off of it,
Buy another car, but leave nothing for those ill equipped.
And so sure are we, like the flat world that goes round.
Oh, there are witches in Salem, let the rope take them down.
Are you a red? Are you black? Is it difference that we fear?
Why smother it so quickly, then be the first to shed a tear?
Apologies often come from those who judge to quick,
Try learning first, before picking up a stick.
It is easy to hate, it is easy to destroy,
But we are past that.
Let not your certain uncertainties be responsible for the death of another.
We all have a brain, no matter how its cells function.
Embrace the uncertainty. Clasp yourself to the unknown.
And like a sweet disease, potent and strong,
We may yet all learn to get along.